


Anything for Science

by Magnolia822



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crack, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), First Time, Getting Together, Humor, It just depends on his mood I guess, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Pining, Porn with Feelings, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Inexperience, Touch-Starved, Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wingfic, a bit o' angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-08-16 02:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20168632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: Aziraphale decides he wants to make an Effort, so he watches a lot of porn for science. And when he asks for help with more hands-on experimentation, Crowley is only more than happy to oblige.





	1. A Surprising Turn of Events

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Silly Goose for the beta! Characters are not mine, no offense is intended, etc. <3
> 
> Also, I want to thank [altocello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/altocello/pseuds/altocello) for the amazing art she created to compliment this story! Cello, I am so grateful you were inspired and took the time to bring these two to life <3. Please go [check it out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20819492) and leave her some love.

Crowley isn’t sure what he expects to find three days after the end of the world, but it isn’t Aziraphale watching gay ‘70s pornography in his dusty, book-filled flat. It certainly isn’t Aziraphale taking _notes_ while he watches said pornography, a thoughtful little frown on his face. 

“Oh, Crowley, there you are,” Aziraphale says fondly, still focused on the screen of his geriatric telly. Crowley can’t believe he knows how to work the almost-as-ancient VHS player, and he has even less of an idea where Aziraphale could have gotten the pile of old porno tapes littering the coffee table between the sofa and the screen. The strains of the ubiquitous chicka-bow-wow soundtrack fill the room on high volume, reminding Crowley of his own adventures in that misspent decade. 

“What in the—ah—shall I come back later, then?” Crowley nearly drops the bottle of wine he’s holding as he slinks backwards towards the door. 

“No, no, please come in. I’m just finishing up this one. Looks as though they are almost done, at least.” 

“Oh,” Crowley croaks. 

“Take a seat, my dear boy.” 

Crowley perches himself awkwardly on the arm of the sofa, feeling faint. He doesn’t know where to look, whether at the screen, where two very hairy, muscular men are fucking, or at Aziraphale, who is concentrating with a single-minded focus, but who doesn’t appear to be otherwise moved. Unfortunately for Crowley, that isn’t the case. In spite of the cheesy music, the men are moaning and groaning and making a mess of each other, and Aziraphale is studying said men like they’re an undiscovered Renaissance painting, and it’s altogether too incongruous and arousing to take. Crowley crosses his legs, hoping Aziraphale won’t notice his straining erection. 

“Are you sure I shouldn’t . . . you don’t want to be . . .” He can barely make himself heard over the indecent cacophony emitting from the telly. 

Onscreen, the top pulls out and shoots his load all over the bottom’s thick, meaty arse. The bottom comes a few seconds later, stroking himself through his orgasm, and then the two men collapse into each other’s arms, kissing with far more tenderness than might seem necessary. 

“Ah. All right. That’s done, then.” Aziraphale gets up and shuts off the VHS tape, setting it to rewind. The placket of his trousers is noticeably flat, and not for the first time (or the millionth, if he’s being honest) Crowley tries to imagine what’s on the other side. A vulva? Nothing? If Aziraphale does have a cock, Crowley’s never seen any evidence of one. 

Once the tape is rewound, Aziraphale ejects it and places it carefully on the left-hand side of the table. “These are the ones I’ve already watched.” 

There are at least twenty titles ranging from the subtly named “Hard Cocks Volume 4” to classics like “Debbie Does Dallas.” Crowley is aware that his mouth is hanging open, but he is quite literally speechless. 

When Aziraphale looks up, his serene expression grows a bit sheepish. “I imagine you’re probably wondering what I’m doing with these. This all must look rather strange.” 

“Ngk. Yeah. You could say that.” Crowley is almost painfully hard, aware it would be visible if only Aziraphale _looked_, but he is focused only on Crowley’s face. 

Aziraphale gives him a tentative smile, “Well, I suppose you could say I’m doing research.” 

“Research?” 

“Mmm-hmm.” Aziraphale goes back to his sofa and sits primly on the edge, folding his hands over his crossed knees. “I’ve decided I want to make an effort. Sexually speaking.” 

Crowley coughs. “Ah. Okay.” 

“You must think me awfully prudish. I’m not, you know. I just have never . . . felt free enough to do anything about it before. Gabriel used to drop in at the most inconvenient times, and one never knew whether the Almighty was watching.” As if unable to help himself, Aziraphale casts his eyes towards Heaven. 

“Yeah. I guess that would be a bit . . . a bit of a downer.” Crowley swallows deeply. “And so you’re researching for . . .?” 

“I’m coming to that. Of course I know what the parts are, theoretically speaking, but I’ve never manifested any sexual organs myself. I want to know my options, as it were. All of the minor details I wouldn’t be able to imagine. And then to see all of the ways they might be put to best use. It’s science.” 

“You’re watching porn for science.” 

“Yes, well, these came in as a donation. I think they were meant for that shop round the corner.”

“Ah. Adam and Eve?” Crowley snorts. The day the place opened he was sure Aziraphale was going to have an apoplectic fit. 

“Please, don’t remind me of the name.” Aziraphale shudders and rolls his eyes. “In any case, they have been interesting. I’ve made a lot of notes, and I think I’ve got a general idea of what I might like.” 

“Oh, have you?” Though he’s never expressed a sexual interest in Crowley (or anyone else), Crowley doesn’t think he’s one for women. In fact, he’s sure that Aziraphale has carefully cultivated his persona to seem nonthreatening and to blend in with the homosexual enclave in SoHo, whom he loves and supports. Whether or not he will choose to manifest a penis or not, Crowley is less sure. Frankly, he doesn’t care either way. Though he prefers a penis for his own form, he’s also lived with a vulva. They both have their charms, and in his own experimental phases—in Rome, France, and then swinging London—humans of all different body types, genders, and sexualities have brought him pleasure. Of course none of his former partners could truly give Crowley what he wanted, because what he wants is a bright-haired angel with well-manicured hands, who is currently staring up at him excitedly because he's spent the last few who knows how many hours watching pornography. And taking _notes_.

The more important point is this: Crowley isn’t a fool (at least not entirely). He knows there is _something_ between them, something that goes beyond friendship. For him, that something is a bittersweet, all-consuming love tinged with lust tinged with the fierce desire to protect Aziraphale from all harm for eternity. For Aziraphale, well, he’s not quite sure. It’s what he’s been wanting to find out, now that they’re free. 

“Yes. But I need to do a bit more research to reach a more definite conclusion. Some of these films are really rather difficult to watch.” Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. “The acting is terrible. And the plot lines? Someone coming over to repair your refrigerator and you don’t have anything to pay them with except sex? It strains credulity. And this one woman took her top off because it was too hot outside, but she didn’t have anything on underneath!” 

Crowley barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think pornos are known for their realistic exploration of the human condition.” 

“Unfortunately not.” 

“Might I make a suggestion?” 

“Please.” Aziraphale’s eyes warm sweetly, and he’s a bit pinker in the face than Crowley remembers. Suddenly, Crowley has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from suggesting what he wants to suggest. _Don’t faff about with these old dirty movies, angel, for Someone’s sake. Faff about with_ me. “Well?” Aziraphale asks. 

“You could use the internet. Maybe try some, ahh, amateur films. They tend to be a bit more realistic than the ones you’ve been ahh . . . researching.” He knows his own face is redder than Satan’s arse. He can hardly believe this entire ridiculous situation. 

Aziraphale pouts. “Oh, you mean use a computer. I don’t have one that works. And the last time I went to the library they asked me to leave and never come back. Apparently, you’re not supposed to borrow them like you do the books, but how was I to know?” 

“You can’t watch this stuff at the library, angel.” Crowley can just imagine it now, having to spring Aziraphale out of jail for public indecency. “Look. I’ll bring you my laptop tomorrow.” 

“Oh, will you!” Aziraphale claps his hands, his expression joyous. “That’s most kind of you, my dear, most kind. And will you help me turn on the internet? And find these amateurs you’re talking about? Where do they live, exactly?” 

“They don’t—” Crowley lets out a defeated sigh. “Yes, I’ll help you.” 

“My dear! I could just kiss you!” And Aziraphale does, a sweet, brief press of lips to his cheek. It’s not the kind of kiss Crowley _wants_ from him, but even so the skin on his face tingles, and he resists the urge to touch the place with the tips of his fingers. 

“Shall we open the wine you brought? Looks lovely. Come on over and sit by me, and I’ll get the glasses.” 

By the time they’ve finished the bottle and another besides, Crowley feels as though he’s being slowly strangled by pure lust. He barely makes it back to his flat before he’s tearing off his trousers and flinging himself on his bed, taking his hard prick in hand. With only a few brutal, efficient strokes he climaxes, a cry on his lips that sounds an awful lot like Aziraphale’s name.

Tomorrow should be very interesting indeed.


	2. Moral Support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Silly Goose for the beta! This chapter happened more quickly than I expected. Enjoy!

There are about a hundred ways this could go wrong, Crowley thinks as he climbs the stairs to Aziraphale’s flat, his laptop tucked snugly under his arm. He hasn’t slept at all for going over every possible iteration of impending disaster. Most of them include Crowley showing something to Aziraphale that disgusts him and puts him off the idea forever; or worse, Aziraphale sees something he likes, and Crowley is unable to stop himself from being incredibly stupid. He takes a deep breath and knocks. 

Aziraphale answers wearing his glasses and a soft-looking cardigan. “Ah. Perfect timing. I was just making tea. Come in, come in.” He holds the door open with a flourish.

Crowley figures he’s going to need something a lot stronger than tea to get through this day, but does as he is bid, following Aziraphale to his tiny and mostly unused kitchen. They chat about things of no consequence as Aziraphale puts the kettle on the hob and rummages through the cupboards for biscuits. It’s almost like it’s any other day, only instead of seeing a show or having a leisurely, wine-soaked lunch, they’re going to be watching strangers fuck on the Internet. 

Late morning sunlight streams through frayed white curtains in Aziraphale’s living room, illuminating the stacked VHS cassettes. No, hadn’t been a dream, then. Crowley doesn’t touch his tea but watches while Aziraphale polishes off the rest of the packet of Hobnobs, then licks his chocolatey fingers one by one. He’s not wearing shoes, and his stockinged toes curl with pleasure on the thick beige carpet. Not for the first time, Crowley muses that Aziraphale got into the wrong line of work. He would have been a master tempter without even trying.

Finally, Aziraphale dusts his sweater of crumbs and glances over at Crowley, who is clutching the laptop to his chest and wondering if he can escape through the window. “Okay, my dear. I’m ready to use the Internet.” 

“Sure. Let me just . . .” Crowley leans forward on the sofa and moves a few of Aziraphale’s pornos out of the way to make room for his computer. The angel watches raptly as Crowley keys in his password and wakes the screen to life. 

It isn’t as though he’s a pornography expert himself; he’d only researched it for a standard political tempting. The last thirty years, Crowley has lived a celibate life, save for his own hand, and his fantasies are usually robust enough that he doesn’t need any additional inspiration. He’s pretty sure this little misadventure is going to be perfect fodder for years—maybe millennia—to come.

“All right,” Crowley says. “Shall I just, set you up with a few websites and come back for this later? Give you a little, ah, privacy?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “Oh no, please stay. You know I’m hopeless with technology. I wouldn’t know what to do.” He pauses, looks down at his hands. “And . . . I would really like to hear what you think.” 

“What _I_ think?” Crowley almost chokes on his own tongue. 

“Well, you are more experienced than I am, Crowley. I know what you got up to in Rome. And France. And, well, here.” Crowley feels his ears heat. Aziraphale doesn’t sound angry, but he doesn’t sound extremely happy about it either. 

“How do you—”

Aziraphale sniffs primly. “You’re not as covert as you think you are, dear. One hears certain things in office gossip—Sandalphon can’t keep anything to himself. And I do live in SoHo.” 

“Right.” 

“Shall we continue?” 

Grateful that Aziraphale seems willing to let the subject drop, Crowley types a few search terms into his browser. “So, what are we looking for, exactly?” 

“I’d like to see some onanism, if you would be so kind.” 

“For the love of Someone, angel, no one calls it that. Haven’t done since the fourteenth century.” 

“What do they call it?” 

“Wanking. Fapping. Having one out. Should I go on?” 

For the first time since this madness began, Aziraphale looks slightly embarrassed. He wriggles a little in his seat. “That won’t be necessary.” 

“Okay, so you want to see wanking. What, ah, sort?” 

“Let’s start with a woman.” 

Crowley nods and types a bit more, then scrolls through the video offerings until he finds one with an attractively voluptuous woman with curly blonde hair. He presses play. 

She is reclining on a sofa, giggling at someone just off camera—a partner, most likely—who is filming her as she spreads her legs to reveal her pink, wet cunt. She slides her fingers over it, gathering moisture and circling around her hooded clit. 

Aziraphale has his notebook out again, but Crowley can’t see what he’s writing. The woman lets out a breathy little moan and the person holding the camera—it sounds like another woman—murmurs something inaudible. 

The room suddenly feels uncomfortably warm. 

“Shall I open a window?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale is studying the screen with an inscrutable expression on his face. “I’ll just . . . do that.” He stands and flings the curtains back, unlatches the lock. Cool air rushes into the room, and Crowley inhales deeply, takes the opportunity to adjust himself and curses his fashion sense for the tight trousers. Behind him, he hears the sounds of the woman reaching her climax. 

When it ends, Crowley turns around to find Aziraphale staring at him. “Well?” 

“That was,” Aziraphale clears his throat. “Very interesting. You were right about it being better. Humans can be so emotive when the feeling is genuine.” 

Crowley bites his lower lip. “And what did you think of . . .?” He can’t quite bring himself to say it.

“The vulva? It’s incredibly complex, isn’t it? I’m so glad I’ve dedicated some time to its study. So many things to get right.” 

That hadn’t been _precisely_ what Crowley was going to ask, but the next question trips out of his mouth immediately. “Do you think you’d like to have one?” 

Aziraphale looks thoughtful. “Perhaps. I think I should like to try it, at least. Have you ever? I mean, when you take on a female appearance? Sandalphon was a little light on the details.” 

Crowley nodded. “And sometimes even like this. That’s possible too, you know.” 

“Of course. I’m not an idiot, Crowley.” Aziraphale looks a bit put out. 

“I know you’re not, angel.” 

“Well. Do you like them? If I might be so bold as to ask?” 

“Uh. On a partner or on myself?” Crowley wants to bash his head against the wall. Aziraphale is watching him with careful consideration, and he’s pretty sure his cock can’t take much more of this. 

“Both.” 

“I thought you already knew everything about my sex life.” 

“Well, if you’re going to get tetchy about it, forget it. This is purely for science, of course.” Aziraphale takes a sip of his tea and wrinkles his nose. He snaps, and then the liquid is steaming again. 

“For science, right. Fine.” Crowley slinks back to the sofa and sits at the opposite end, flinging his head back so he doesn’t have to look at Aziraphale’s lips nursing at his blasted teacup. “I don’t have a strong preference for either on a partner; for mysssself, I prefer a cock.” The word sounds obscene, let loose like that into the air between them. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale clears his throat. “Any particular reason?” 

Because he likes the way it feels in his hand, the velvety-hardness, the slide of skin on it, the way he can use it to pleasure someone else, feel their tight heat clench at him like an embrace. Because he made his cock picturing what someone would most like, someone in particular, perhaps, and that thought is with him always, every time he touches it. Of course he can’t say any of that. He blinks at the ceiling and shakes his head. “I don’t think I can put it into words. You’ll just have to experience it for yourself.” Crowley would bash his head into the window if he hadn’t just opened it. He thought he’d pictured every disaster scenario, but this is bordering on new territory. “Next question.” 

Aziraphale is quiet for a moment. “Perhaps we should watch another video. One with a c-cock.” 

“Fabulous idea,” Crowley says. He manages to manoeuver over to his laptop and smash some keys, and as the video begins to play, he tries to get himself under control. He is too close to Aziraphale, too aware of the way Aziraphale’s eyes widen as the man on the screen slides his slick fist up and down his reddened prick. It’s obvious he’s been at it for some time and is almost ready to come. Crowley forgets to breathe and watches Aziraphale’s lips part, the tip of his pink tongue darting out to wet them. It’s the most reaction he’s seen from the angel so far; clearly Aziraphale is feeling some sort of interest in the proceedings, but he still appears largely unaffected. He takes up his notebook and begins to write. 

Meanwhile on the laptop, the man is arching his hips, fucking into his hand with greater abandon. Crowley’s prick aches in sympathy. He wonders if he can excuse himself to the loo without it seeming too obvious. He has never been so turned on, not even during that orgy in 1971 with Mick Jagger and David Bowie. It’s worse than being in Hell, because at least in Hell Crowley can be as base as he likes. He tries to get comfortable but the throbbing in his groin gets worse and worse, and he has to dig his nails into his palms to stop from touching himself. 

Finally, after what seems like forever, the man moans as he begins to spurt. Aziraphale’s eyes are bright, his face full of wonder. “Let’s watch another.” 

Crowley presses play. He’s not sure how much time passes; it’s definitely hours, though, and by the time Aziraphale finally indicates he’s seen enough, Crowley thinks he might actually discorporate. He can feel his eyes have gone snakey, but there’s not much he can do about it. They’ll be like that until he can finally get some release, if Aziraphale ever decides he’s had enough of torturing him.

“Well. That was most edifying,” Aziraphale says. 

“Was it?” Crowley cringes at the breathless sound of his voice. “You don’t seem very . . .” 

“What, my dear?” 

Crowley tries to regain some sense of control, exerting his will so that he can actually get out a coherent thought. “Well, the reason that people—humans, I should say—watch stuff like this is to, you know, get off. It doesn’t make you, ah, aroused?” 

Aziraphale looks to be thinking deeply. “I’m definitely feeling something,” he says. “But I can’t be sure. I think I might need to physically . . . change before I know for certain. Do a little hands-on experimentation. For the sake of science.” He looks at Crowley hopefully. “I was wondering if you . . . if you might . . .”

Crowley hides his face in his hands. “Angel. You don’t know what you’re asking.” 

“You wouldn’t have to touch me. Just . . . It would help me, I think, if you were here.” There is a slight, tentative brush of a hand against his thigh. 

“You want me to watch you masturbate?” 

“Well, when you put it like that it sounds almost tawdry,” Aziraphale says with a frown. “I meant more, be there for moral support.” 

Crowley doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He knows he shouldn’t say yes, that it will only end in disaster and probable tears and sexual frustration of never-before-experienced proportions, but he can only nod his head dumbly to agree. 

“Sssssure, angel. Whatever you like.”


	3. Out of the Frying Pan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Silly Goose for the beta! No offense is intended, etc.

Crowley returns to Aziraphale’s two days later. He doesn’t know why he’s been given such instructions, only that he is powerless in the face of Aziraphale’s demands. That’s bollocks, of course, but it’s what he tells himself as he climbs the stairs with a heart that doesn’t need to beat, pumping so furiously he might as well be running a bloody triathlon. Aziraphale has asked for his help, and he will give it, and that’s all this is. Nothing more. If maybe he’s being a little selfish not talking Aziraphale out of this unbelievably bad idea, well, the angel never listens to him anyway.

It is early evening. Crowley has come dressed in jeans looser than his usual, carrying a small bag filled with his nighttime essentials—a pair of black silk pajamas and a toothbrush. It’s ridiculous of him, really, but he wants to be prepared. Of course, maybe Aziraphale will just ask him to leave after he—_wanks, faps, tugs one out, masturbates_—Crowley’s brain supplies helpfully. Images of Aziraphale doing any number of things with any number of new appendages have been running on a continuous loop through Crowley’s imagination. It’s been an exhausting forty-eight hours, but at least he himself has wanked enough to make his prick behave. He’s pretty sure. 

Aziraphale looks pleased to see him, but there is something else in his expression that seems a bit uneasy. Crowley follows him carefully, watching the tense hold of his shoulders, the too-quick step as Aziraphale leads him through the flat like he’s a guest rather than a dear friend who’s visited many times.

“And, I’ve picked up a few things. For if you’re feeling peckish,” Aziraphale says as they stand in front of his small dining table laden with a variety of high-end takeout containers featuring everything from _moules marinieres_ to moussaka. He’s wringing his hands like a wet dishcloth. 

“I’m fine,” Crowley says. “Ate before I came.” It’s not true, of course, but he doesn’t think he could force down even a bite with the way his stomach is squirming with nerves. 

Strangely, Aziraphale doesn’t press him. “Ah. Quite right. You don’t mind if I . . .” 

“Help yourself, angel.” 

Aziraphale piles his plate high with all manner of things and they open a bottle of wine, which Crowley happily imbibes. He watches, as he always does, as Aziraphale eats. Usually, he is treated to sweet moans and murmurs of happiness whenever Aziraphale bites into something he likes, but tonight those sounds are noticeably absent. It’s becoming increasingly clear that Aziraphale is having second thoughts. 

A flood of disappointment washes through Crowley, but he tries to maintain his neutral expression. He is going to have to be the one to call things off. 

“Look, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, slouching against the kitchen counter while Aziraphale does the washing up. “You don’t have to do this.” 

“The dishes? Won’t take but a minute.” Aziraphale gives him a bright, false smile, showing his perfect teeth. 

“You know that’s not what I mean. I think you’re regretting what you asked me to do a couple of days ago, but you’re afraid to tell me.” 

Aziraphale turns off the tap and grips the edge of the sink. He seems to be struggling to find his words. “It’s not that, precisely.” 

“What is it, then?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes glisten a little, and Crowley realizes with horror that the angel is about to cry. “Oh, my dear. I’m . . . I . . . It’s just so clear you’re uncomfortable. I think I’ve asked for too much. I hate that I might have overstepped the boundaries of our friendship and made you feel obligated to be here, and I . . .” He trails off, looking lost. “I’m afraid I have no idea what I’m doing. Please forgive me.” 

Crowley’s chest feels painfully tight. He shakes his head. “There’s nothing to forgive. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. I sssswear.” He isn’t sure what more he can say, what he ought to do. He wants to comfort Aziraphale, wrap his arms around him from behind so the lengths of their bodies are aligned, and tell him that it’s all he’s ever wanted, that Aziraphale is all he wants, in whatever way Aziraphale will have him, but his feet feel rooted to the floor. 

At least he must sound genuine enough that Aziraphale seems to believe him. “Really?” His sad smile has grown hopeful again. 

“Yes. I meant what I said.” 

“Oh. Well.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do.” 

Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. “All right. Just wait for me while I change, will you? I’ll call for you when I need . . . er, assistance.” 

“Ssssounds good.” 

Crowley finds himself pacing alone in the living room while Aziraphale does whatever he is doing in the bedroom. Changing into what? More comfortable clothes? A new body? A body with certain new and unfamiliar additions that he expects Crowley to, what, critique? Assist with the manipulation of? 

He feels suddenly strangled and tugs the top buttons of his shirt open. 

A few minutes later (or is it hours?) Aziraphale calls his name. 

Crowley hesitates on the other side of the closed door. He gives a gentle knock and receives a tentative ‘come in.’ 

The lights are dim, but Crowley can make out Aziraphale’s figure on the bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows. He is wearing a white silk robe that drapes across his figure nicely, and Crowley can’t help how his body responds. Still, this night isn’t about him. It’s not about what he wants, and he needs to get himself back under control. 

With the sheer force of his own will, he stops his cock from filling, thrusts his hands in pockets, and saunters over, trying to seem casual. The bed is ridiculous—fluffy and white and soft, and Crowley wants nothing more than to bury his head in the duvet to see what it smells like. 

It’s only then he notices Aziraphale has something in his hands. A long, pink something made of plastic. 

“I can’t get this blasted thing to work,” he says, mouth twisted in a frustrated frown. 

“Where did you get that?” 

Aziraphale mumbles something that sounds like _AdamandEve_ but Crowley can’t even be bothered to tease. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t look away. The robe is tied, but more of Aziraphale’s chest is visible than Crowley has seen since Rome; it’s surprisingly sturdy, dusted with pale hair, and he’s suddenly desperate to part the robe further. It barely covers Aziraphale’s full thighs and whatever is beneath. Crowley is thinking, using his astute powers of deduction, that this particular Effort may be a vulva. 

He starts to sweat. “Let me take a look. At the toy,” he amends. 

Aziraphale thrusts it at him, and Crowley unscrews the battery compartment. “You’ve ah, put them in the wrong way,” he says, pouring the batteries out into his palm and realigning them correctly. He presses ‘on’ to check, and the thing comes to life in his hands, buzzing like a hive of angry bees. 

Aziraphale looks slightly panicked, so Crowley flicks it off and tosses it back on the bed. “Angel, do you want my scientific opinion?” 

“All right.” 

“I think, for your first time, that using a vibrator may be a little . . . intense. Don’t you want to try touching yourself?” He can hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth. If someone had told Crowley one month ago he’d soon be standing next to Aziraphale’s bed discussing sex toys, he would have laughed them straight to Hell. As it is, he is still not entirely sure it’s really happening. 

“I . . . I’m afraid I won’t know how.”

“To be honest, I think you’re overthinking it a little. This isn’t some sort of test you need to pass on the first go, angel. It’s supposed to be fun. I think you should try to relax.” 

“You’re right. I’m being ridiculous.” His hands are bunching up the silk robe, and Crowley sees a hint of pink between Aziraphale’s legs. He wonders if it’s possible to spontaneously combust if you’re a demon. “Let me just nip into the kitchen for some more wine.”

Aziraphale starts to jump up from the bed with jerky movements, but Crowley holds him in place with one palm to the angel’s chest. He nearly chokes on his tongue as he forms the words, “Why don’t you just stay put and let me rub your shoulders.” 

He’s never offered to do such a thing before, for anyone, but he’s had plenty of massages himself, and when Aziraphale agrees and arranges himself so that Crowley can slip behind him, Crowley is grateful he’s managed to figure out a way to control his own arousal. His pelvis is flush against Aziraphale’s arse, and the skin of Aziraphale’s neck is pale and tempting, only a few inches from his mouth. He digs his fingers into the muscle at the juncture of Aziraphale’s shoulder and blade, just where his wings would be, and Aziraphale lets out a soft gust of breath. 

“That feels lovely.” 

Crowley can only grunt a response. His whole being is fired up, and it’s taking every ounce of concentration not to lose focus and let his own desire take over completely. That is certainly not what Aziraphale needs right now, a demon desperate to slake his lust. He’s counting on Crowley to help him with this because he _trusts_ Crowley, because he has no one else to ask, because they only have each other, now. 

He does almost reconsider, however, when he hears the shift of fabric and feels Aziraphale start to move. It’s tentative, at first, and Crowley bites his lower lip hard enough to taste blood as the unmistakable scent of arousal fills the air. Aziraphale’s head tips backwards against Crowley’s shoulder, legs shifting restlessly. Crowley’s hands continue to work the tight muscles, but he is barely aware of what he’s doing, focused entirely on Aziraphale.

It’s too dark to see, but that sense has always been Crowley’s least acute. Everything else is too much; Aziraphale’s warm body against his own, his sweet smell, the sounds of wetness, of slick skin against skin, his hitching breath. His eyes are closed, lips slightly parted. He looks every part the ravished angel. 

Crowley wants to kiss him, settles for nosing the sweaty curl of hair at his temple. “That’s it,” he whispers. “You’re doing beautifully.” 

“Oh, I . . .” Aziraphale trails off, his forehead scrunching. His arm is moving faster, more purposefully. “It’s . . . it . . . I can’t . . .” 

“Tell me what you need.” 

“It’s like a terrible ache,” Aziraphale gasps. “Just out of reach. I don’t know how. I can’t . . .” He trails off with a near sob. “Is it supposed to be difficult? How did you learn, all those years ago?” 

“Angel, I wasn’t alone. I had humansss to help.” 

“My dear, can you teach me?” 

Crowley doesn’t let himself think, knows if he does he will lose his mind. Instead, he follows the trail of Aziraphale’s hand down to where it is working between his legs. Crowley clasps Aziraphale’s fingers, guiding them to that hot core of him, bites his tongue and feels how soaking Aziraphale is as their hands slot together. His little clit is hard, but obviously over-sensitive. Crowley remembers having one of his own, shows him how to finesse it slowly, how to rub around the mound, tease himself until he is ready. Aziraphale is making hurt, needy sounds, just letting Crowley guide him, trusting him to do this, and Crowley, the blasted idiot he is, feels his eyes grow hot. No one has ever given him such a gift. 

He pulls Aziraphale close with his free arm and holds him as he cries out and starts to shake apart, slippery cunt pulsing around both of their fingers. 

It will be horrible, once Aziraphale remembers himself, Crowley thinks with something like despair. He will regret it. Crowley tightens his hold and allows himself one press of lips to the side of Aziraphale’s face, licks them afterwards to taste. He doesn’t think Aziraphale even notices, he’s so completely undone. 

Aziraphale’s chest is heaving, but his breathing slowly returns to normal. He is a boneless weight against Crowley’s chest, eyes still closed. He looks almost like he’s sleeping, but then he turns his head. 

“Thank you,” he says. His lower lip trembles a little. His eyes are sky blue and clear, full of some nameless emotion. 

Crowley brushes his knuckles against Aziraphale’s rosy cheek. He has no idea what to say, sure nothing could ever be good enough. 

“You’re a wonderful friend, my dear.” 

_Friend._ The word shouldn’t hurt, it never has before, but it is suddenly a weapon, a knife in Crowley’s chest. 

“No problem.” He starts to disentangle their limbs, looks away to give Aziraphale some privacy as he puts himself to rights. He clambers off the bed and glares at it, but then he is angry with himself more than anything. What did he think would happen? Did he think this was the night for grand declarations of love? 

Maybe he had, a little. He thinks of his stupid bag, his ridiculous pajamas. His hand, smelling of Aziraphale.

“Where are you going?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Ah. I better . . . I’ve got a place . . . there was a thing . . . I needed to do.” 

“Oh, really? I hoped you would stay.” 

“You want me to stay.” It’s a statement, not a question, filled with disbelief. 

“Please. I know it’s terribly selfish of me to ask, but please don’t go. Not yet.”

Crowley nearly falls to his knees to curse Heaven. He is such a bloody idiot. “All right,” he says. “I’ll just go and . . . wash up, then.” 

In the bathroom, he stares at his yellow eyes without blinking and turns on the tap, letting the basin fill with cool water. Aziraphale has a million little soaps he’s collected over the years, tiny jars of lotions and things that look like they’re from the nineteenth century. Crowley selects one at random, hands trembling as he washes them. He never thought he would end up here, like this, not with Aziraphale. To have that bloody fruit dangled so close and then taken away is almost more than he can bear. 

He doesn’t put on the pajamas. Back in Aziraphale’s room, he stays on top of the covers, stares at the ceiling as Aziraphale gets ready for bed and settles down after much fluffing of the pillows. 

“I didn’t know you were sleeping now,” Crowley says, because he is desperate for things to be normal. _I can’t have fucked this up._ It doesn’t matter if they’re only friends, best friends is good enough for him. Better not think of anything else. Tonight was enough to live on forever, more than he ever expected. Aziraphale is obviously having a time of working out what he’s feeling. Crowley can be patient. Not that he’s waiting for more. 

“Ever since that day. Strange, isn’t it? It’s nice though. I can understand why you’ve always liked it.” 

“It passes the time.” 

“Is that why you slept so long, back in the nineteenth century?” 

“One of the reasons.” That and the damn holy water. He’d really thought the angel wouldn’t want to see him again. 

“Will you tell me about it, some day?” 

Crowley holds his breath as he feels the bed shift. Aziraphale slides closer. “Thank you again for helping me tonight, my dear. I didn’t know it would feel so . . . intense. No wonder humans get up to such trouble over it all. I don’t know how to describe it. I think I need to try it again.” 

Crowley can’t help snorting. “I’m sure you do. For science, right?” 

“Exactly. But maybe with a different . . . maybe I’ll try . . .” 

“A cock?” 

“Um, yes. Thank you.” Crowley can almost hear the blush in Aziraphale’s voice. 

“Wait a minute, you mean right now?” His own voice has gone high. 

“Maybe in the morning. I mean, of course you don’t have to stay, if you’ve somewhere you need to be.” There’s a hand on his shoulder. Aziraphale is looking at him in the darkness, now close enough to touch. 

He opens his arms, and Aziraphale slides into them as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. Aziraphale makes a contented sound, the gust of breath that punches out of Crowley contains more emotion than there are words in his vocabulary to describe. “I’ll be here, angel. Now go to sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moron4Moron, amirite? Welp, there was a little more angst in that chapter than I initially expected, but hope you enjoyed! Let's see if they can get it together soon, eh? Thanks for reading!


	4. Good Old-fashioned Loverboy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Silly Goose for the beta and for cheering me on! 
> 
> Yes, this is posting much faster than expected. What can I say, I'm inspired! I think there will be at least 2, if not 3 more chapters, probably coming at some point this week :)

It is always disorienting to wake up in a new place, in someone else’s bed. Crowley has learned over the millennia not to make a habit of it, and so when he blinks awake at just a little before dawn, his first instinct is to flee. But then he feels the soft weight of another, familiar body against his own, and it all comes rushing back with complete and utter clarity: Aziraphale between his legs, the feel and smell and taste of him. Sometime during the night, Crowley has managed to end up under the covers. Aziraphale’s doing, probably. He’s still sleeping, head pillowed against Crowley’s shoulder.

The rise and fall of his chest is so human; Crowley realises he’s never seen Aziraphale look so at peace. Strangely, it reminds Crowley of the years raising Warlock: how Crowley would watch the sleeping child and wonder how such a fragile being could hold the fate of the world in his hands. He can’t help thinking of another moment, when he thought Aziraphale was lost to him. How utterly devoid of meaning his life had seemed as he knelt in that burning bookshop. He’d never come so close to praying, to begging, in all of his years since the Fall. If he had thought it would have mattered, he would have done it for Aziraphale.

He doesn’t let his thoughts carry him further; instead, he closes his eyes and wills himself back to sleep. Morning will come soon enough.

When he wakes up again, it must be an hour or so later. The warm pressure against his body is gone, but Aziraphale is still in bed. He is turned onto his side, facing away, and for a moment Crowley thinks he’s asleep.

Until he feels the subtle rhythm of the bed shaking. Aziraphale has pushed the covers back, and Crowley can see his arm move quickly as he strokes himself, trying to be quiet but failing miserably, little breathy sighs escaping his lips. Crowley’s own body snaps to attention, his prick filling before he has anything to say about it.

Crowley has to hand it to the angel; he’s really going all in.

Of course, when Crowley himself had finally discovered what his human vessel could do with a little help from some very talented friends, he hadn’t left his bed for almost a year, so he supposes he’s not one to cast the first stone. He’s simply passing on the favor, so to speak.

He wonders what he should do, if he should move closer or say something, but a sudden, frustrated exclamation from Aziraphale decides for him.

“Bugger.”

“Everything all right there, angel?”

“Crowley. Oh, ah. I . . . well . . .” Aziraphale’s voice is high-pitched, embarrassed.

“You having, ah . . . some trouble?”

“If you must know, actually I am.”

“_If I must know_,” Crowley says, doing a snitty impression. “Aziraphale, you’re the one who wanted me here. What seems to be the problem?”

“It’s . . . I can’t . . . it isn’t working.” He sounds close to tears. Crowley shifts forward through the sea of puffy white down and puts his hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck, automatically seeking points of tension.

“What isn’t working?”

“I must have done something wrong. It won’t stay hard.”

“Ahhh,” Crowley says, trying to sound comforting.

“Have you ever had . . . any trouble?”

Crowley has had a lot of trouble in his days, but keeping his cock hard has never been an issue. In fact, he’s extremely glad for the ridiculous blanket covering his hips. Even in spite of Aziraphale’s distress, knowing he has been wanking is enough to make Crowley hard as granite.

“Everyone has trouble at some point or another,” he lies. “Can I help?”

The muscles under his fingers stiffen, and for a minute Crowley thinks Aziraphale is going to pull away, then, he heaves out a defeated sigh and turns over on his back.

His pajama bottoms—tartan, of course—are bunched down around his hips, but Crowley only has eyes for the thick, pink, flaccid cock and heavy bollocks Aziraphale has chosen for himself. There is only a slight dusting of blond hair above the whole package. Crowley wants to cover the angel with his own body and ravish him on sight. He would, probably, if he didn’t love the bloody fool so much.

“Looks . . . nice,” he says lamely, throat dry. “Can you show me what you’ve been, ah, doing?”

Aziraphale’s eyes are huge. He doesn’t answer, merely licks his lips and takes his cock in hand, then starts to pull. Crowley can tell right away what’s wrong. He’s going much too fast and he isn’t the least bit turned on, which is a bit of a hit to Crowley’s ego, but understandable just the same.

“Okay,” he says. “Stop. Tell me what you’re thinking about right now.”

Aziraphale’s hand curls protectively over his soft prick. “I was thinking . . . I’m not sure I put the closed sign up on the bookshop. And I would quite like a cup of tea. That kind you brought me last week from the Chinese apothecary. But I don’t understand. Isn’t it just supposed to . . . work? I mean, the humans in those videos didn’t seem to have any trouble. A slight breeze was enough to get some of them off. Why aren’t I good at this?”

Crowley bites the inside of his mouth. “Angel, you’re overthinking it again.”

“Am I?”

“The more you worry over it, the less likely it is to happen. Plus, you should try maybe thinking . . . sexier thoughts.”

“Sexier thoughts.” Aziraphale’s cheeks start to pinken. “Oh. Of course.”

“I know you haven’t been . . . active in this way, but maybe there’s something you can think of that excites you?”

Aziraphale nods, eyes darting away.

“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” Crowley says. _Please let it be me, I’d do anything, please._ “But maybe . . . close your eyes. Use your imagination.”

It’s true that Crowley has always been the more imaginative of the two of them, but he knows that Aziraphale is capable. He simply has never allowed himself to think beyond the path of what was laid out for him; deviating from it now is taking all of his will, and Crowley knows that while it will get easier in time, he needs Crowley’s help now.

Aziraphale does as he asks, closing his eyes. Crowley leans back a little and adjusts himself surreptitiously in his jeans.

“Good. Now. Take a deep breath. Try to relax. Think about whatever it is that you want, what you’ve fantasised about. Doesn’t matter what it is. Don’t even touch yourself yet.”

“All right.”

It begins working almost immediately; Crowley watches the pink cock start to grow, lengthening until it is a plump weight on Aziraphale’s belly. It’s not terribly long, but it is incredibly thick, and Crowley wants desperately to know what it would feel like filling up his mouth.

“That’sss it,” he whispers. “Well done. Now. Touch yourself, but don’t go fast. Start very slowly. Keep thinking . . . about whatever it is you’re thinking about.”

Aziraphale grips his shaft and starts a slow slide. Crowley almost curses himself. “Wait. Wait a second.” With a snap, his hand is filled with the slick almond oil he prefers. “Give me your palm.”

Their hands meet, slippery and wet, and Crowley’s cock pulses between his legs. Aziraphale’s eyebrows shoot up, a small smile curving his lips, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “My dear, you’re a genius.”

“Don’t think I’m ever going to forget you said that. Now. Go on.”

Aziraphale returns to his cock, slicking it with the oil, and immediately lets out a happy, aroused sigh. “Oh, that _is_ nice.” He closes his fist around his cock, and his fingers barely fit around the girth. It’s just the type of cock Crowley likes to ride, likes to feel stretch him full. He wonders if Aziraphale would ever want that. Aziraphale lets out a quiet little moan.

There are so many things Crowley wants to do to him; he can barely catalogue them all. He settles for watching, pressing his palm against his aching prick under the covers as Aziraphale really starts to hit his stride.

“That’s it, angel,” he says, unable to stop himself. “Yesss, just like that. A little slower. Use your thumb on the tip.”

Aziraphale circles his thumb over his pulsing slit, and Crowley can see the spurt of wetness he collects, wonders how it tastes. He is in dangerous territory, he knows. His own arousal is beginning to crest, and it’s taking a Herculean effort to stop himself from coming in his pants like a teenaged human with his first crush.

“Ah, oh my,” Aziraphale says. “Please. Tell me what else to do. What do you like when you are . . . doing this?”

Crowley nearly tells him the truth but bites the words back before they escape. Aziraphale is merely asking for instructions, isn’t he? _I think of you, of loving you. That’s all I’ve thought about since I saw you standing on that blasted wall, you silly fool._

“Ah, you’ve given yourself a nice little foreskin. You can push it back, use it to help get you nice and wet.”

“Yes, I think . . . oh that is _lovely_.”

Crowley stifles his own groan. “And sometimes it feels good if you touch your bollocks. You could do that.” The angel hastens to comply. “Hold them in your hand. Give them a little tug.”

Aziraphale is a quick learner, and he is shamelessly loud, which shouldn’t come as a surprise, but does. He moans, holding his sack tight with one hand as his other works his prick. There is no doubt he’s close; his cock, flushed a brilliant shade of red, is leaking copiously. Crowley wants to tell him to go more slowly, tease it out longer, but that way madness lies.

Somewhere, in the back of Crowley’s mind, he knows he’s fucked anyway. There will never be a time when he doesn’t think of this, when he doesn’t want it again.

“My d-dear?”

“I’m still here,” he says. “You’re doing beautifully. Let yourself go.”

Aziraphale’s whole body is trembling, thighs tensing, his face pink with effort. He opens his eyes and looks at Crowley, his expression dazed with desire. “Crowley,” he says as he starts to spurt.

It’s too much. Crowley thought he was near his breaking point, but that was before he saw an angel—his angel, dammit—come while saying his blasted name. Crowley simply moves, closes the distance between them. He has Aziraphale’s face in his hands, and they are kissing. Or, at least, Crowley is kissing. Aziraphale seems frozen in shock, still working out the last of his release, and Crowley realises that he hadn’t asked, that Aziraphale might not want . . . He pulls back, confused and aroused and more than a little embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Aziraphale is staring at him with surprised, clear blue eyes. “My dear, I—"

Crowley cuts him off, leaping off the bed as though it’s suddenly soaked with holy water. Which, in a way, it kind of is. All he knows is he needs to get away, right now, and fast. His prick is about to explode, and if he doesn’t leave this very minute, he’s going to yank it out right here. Maybe come all over Aziraphale’s cute little round belly. Or his face. That would look . . . “Shit. Let me just let you get yourself together.” _Get_ yourself _together, you idiot._ “I . . . I need to water the plants. They get, you know, flaccid, I mean wilty, or something, definitely not erect, when they feel they’re being neglected. Don’t want to give them any ideas.”

Aziraphale manages to look dignified in spite of his disheveled state. He arches an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his stomach. “Dear, you’re being ridiculous. Will you please—”

“I’ll call you later, yeah? Have a spot of lunch? You pick the place. I’m . . . I’m double parked outside, left the windows open, think it looks like rain.”

“I’ll expect a very expensive lunch indeed.” Aziraphale turns up his nose with a haughty sniff.

“Sure, sure, let’s do sushi, the Ritz. Anything you like. You . . . great experiment. Well done, you.”

_Great experiment?_ he mutters to himself as he darts down the stairs two by two. __

_ _The Bentley isn’t normally the place Crowley would select for a wank, but desperate times and all. He uses a demonic miracle to tint the windows and protect the seats, then rips open his stupid big jeans (a pair he’d worn in the 90’s) with such force the cloth tears. His hand is around his aching prick, and behind his eyelids all he can see is Aziraphale’s head thrown back in ecstasy, the sounds he makes. Aziraphale’s pink pussy, his fat cock, his sweaty, cottony curls, Crowley’s name on his lips as he . . . _ _

_ _It’s a fucking mess. Crowley is pretty sure he’s never come so hard, or for so long, and by the end of it not even his miracle is enough to protect the seats in the back. He hadn’t expected that much range. _ _

_ _He bangs his head against the steering wheel, and the engine turns over without him even inserting the key. The stereo is blasting much louder than he remembers. _ _

_ _ _“Ooh love, ooh loverboy, what’re you doin’ tonight, hey, boy? Set my alarm, turn on my charm, that’s because I’m a good old-fashioned loverboy.”_ _ _

_ _“Oh, shuttup,” Crowley growls at Freddie Mercury. He stabs at the radio dial. _ _

_ _But the Bentley is trying to make a point. _ _

_ _ _“Oooh, oooh, can you feel my love heat? Come and sit on my hot-seat of love . . .”_ _ _

_ _“I’m sorry, okay?” he tells his car. “I just needed a minute. I’ll make it up to him.” He digs out his phone from his back pocket and starts poking around, looking for the most expensive restaurant London has to offer. _ _

_ _It’s only then he remembers he left his overnight bag back in the flat. _ _

_ _“I’m a wanker,” he says, and bangs his head one more time for good measure. _ _

_ _ _“Hey boy, where did you go? I learned my passion in the good old-fashioned school of loverboys . . .”_ _ _

_ _“I’m going to take you in for a hot wax, see how you like it,” Crowley grumbles, throwing the gears into drive. He peels down the street like all the hounds of Hell are at his heels._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Crowley <3


	5. More Than a Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Silly Goose for the beta <3

Aziraphale is already seated at their table when Crowley arrives at the restaurant at half two. He’s all buttoned up again, smiling demurely at the server as he points and orders something from the wine menu. For a second, Crowley freezes. He can’t do this. He absolutely can’t explain that kiss, and Aziraphale will want an explanation, no doubt about it. He’s very good at asking Crowley to explain himself, and Crowley is very bad at explaining. 

What to say, what to say. He’d rehearsed it all on the way over, thought about every way this conversation could go, but now he’s drawing an absolute blank. 

_I love you, you bastard._ Nah, that probably won’t go over well. Not very demon-like at all, is it, to love an angel, but Hell, he’s had six thousand years to get used to the idea. Aziraphale, on the other hand, is just doing a bloody science experiment. Do angels even believe in science? 

His feet are starting to slither backwards, but then Aziraphale glances over his way and nods, and Crowley feels like he’s being pulled in by tractor beams, or whatever it is that aliens do with their spaceships that Adam was nattering on about. Aziraphale is much more attractive than an alien, however, which somehow makes it worse. 

“Hey,” Crowley says casually, dropping into his chair with studied nonchalance. It’s an omakase sushi place, the newest and most exclusive in town, and Crowley is pretty sure the meal is going to empty his bank account. One of them, anyway. 

Aziraphale regards Crowley carefully from over the top of his menu. “Oh, good. You changed out of those awful trousers. I was beginning to wonder if you were ill.” 

Crowley frowns down at himself. He’s in all black, of course, and living dangerously in his tightest trousers and snakeskin boots. “You didn’t like my jeans?” 

“They were bad enough the first time you wore them.” Aziraphale shudders. “No, this is much better.” 

“Anything to please you, angel.” He’d meant it as a joke, but it comes out much more sincerely than he intended. 

“Hmm.” The server returns with a cold bottle of sake and two glasses. Crowley takes his first sip gratefully while across from him, Aziraphale orders for them both. Maybe they won’t talk about it at all, Crowley thinks with uncharacteristic optimism. He pours a second glass of sake and downs it in one go. 

“Trying to get drunk, are we?” 

“A bit. Here. Bottoms up. Er. Cheers.”

They clink glasses, and Aziraphale sips his drink and places it down on the table. “So, did you take care of your little problem, my dear?” 

Crowley inhales some of his sake. “It’s not little. I mean, my . . . plants are very, very big. They’re really wet now. Well-watered.” He winces and tries to pass it off by coughing and slapping his chest. 

“I’m sure you emptied your watering can, hydrating the plants, that is.” 

Crowley stares in amazement as Aziraphale sips his drink with a stoic, slightly bemused expression on his face. Their entire relationship is in jeopardy, and Aziraphale is making double-entendres about wanking. Because of course he’d noticed Crowley’s erection, why wouldn’t he have? So now Crowley is scrambling to think of an explanation beyond the obvious, but only if Aziraphale is upset about it. Which he doesn’t seem to be. He seems to find it funny and not sexy, however, which is less than optimal. 

“You left a bag at my flat. I didn’t look inside, so there’s no reason to be so alarmed.” 

“I’m not _alarmed_—”

Just then, the first course arrives. A tiny fillet of white fish with a few roe on top and some sort of red sauce. Crowley swallows it down without tasting.

“Simply delicious,” Aziraphale murmurs, helpfully distracted by the food. 

Talk turns to the restaurant, the tourist congestion in SoHo, and Anathema and Newt, who are apparently an item. Sort of annoying, really, when Crowley thinks about it. They should at least have been required to pine for each other for a few weeks, but then again humans don’t really have the luxury of waiting forever for their beloved like immortal occult—and ethereal—beings do. And the almost-end-of-the-world has a way of putting things into perspective, so he supposes he can’t really fault them for that. 

Crowley doesn’t so much avoid the topic of what happened that morning and the night before as dodge it like a flaming sword. He latches on to any and every conversational rope Aziraphale throws out, even willing to discuss whether or not he should finally get business cards for the bookshop. _It’s been over two hundred years, angel, you’re not going to start actually selling books now, are you?_

Still, in spite of both of their efforts, something buzzes in the air between them, a tension impossible to ignore. Aziraphale’s hands give him away, as always; they are restless, fluttering like birds over his food, clenching at his napkin between courses. They drink another bottle of sake. Crowley can feel Aziraphale watching him out of the corner of his eye. 

The last course arrives: oysters, of course. Aziraphale makes illicit noises as he slurps down his portion, then dabs his mouth deliberately with his napkin. Crowley stares and pushes his one over. 

“Mmm, scrummy,” Aziraphale says, smacking his lips. “You know, I think I finally understand why these are supposed to be an aphrodisiac. They do resemble a certain something, don’t they?” 

Crowley’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. It’s impossible for him to think of anything other than Aziraphale’s curly head between his thighs. Or better yet, his head between Aziraphale’s. “Uh.” 

“My dear, do close your mouth. You’ll trap flies.” 

“Who are you and what did you to with Aziraphale? Stodgy angel, likes cocoa, doesn’t make dirty jokes?” 

“Oh come now, I’m not an innocent.”

Crowley snorts. “Not anymore.” 

“You don’t approve.” Aziraphale’s shoulders droop. 

“I approve, I approve, of course I approve. Don’t look like that. Now let’s get out of this blasted restaurant before I have to sell the Bentley to pay for the tab.” 

It’s already early evening by the time they step into the humid summer air, and since they aren’t far from St. James’s Park, Aziraphale suggests a stroll. He takes Crowley’s arm as they cross the cobbled street, and Crowley doesn’t say a word, just welcomes the warm hold on his bicep. _This is new._ The contact unravels the knot in his stomach, and a flare of hope kindles in his chest. He’s pleasantly tipsy from the wine, and Aziraphale is chattering contentedly as he recounts each of the ten courses. 

At the park, they sit on their usual bench. Aziraphale has a few crackers in his pocket, which he crumbles and throws to the birds. They’re sitting closer than usual, almost but not quite thigh-to-thigh. 

“So, are we going to talk about it?” Aziraphale brushes off his hands.

“There are a lot of ‘its’, angel. Which do you mean?” 

“You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves, Crowley. I’m not a child. Just tell me why you left today.” 

“I thought you knew. Wasn’t it obvious?” 

“Yes, well, _that_ was certainly obvious, but I don’t think it’s why you ran off. You’re very hard to read.” 

“_I’m_ hard to read. Me? I’m sorry, angel, but the last few days have been extremely confusing. Maddening, even. And amazing, I might add.” 

“You kissed me,” Aziraphale whispers. 

“That’s what you’re latching onto, the kiss? What about everything else? The touching, the sleeping together, the saying my name while coming, for example.” 

“You’ve never tried to kiss me before.” Aziraphale’s lower lip trembles. Crowley wants to do it again, right now, and properly, but first he needs some answers. 

“I didn’t think you wanted kissing before. And we’ve never done those other things either.” 

“You didn’t do it because you felt obligated, did you?” 

“Demons don’t feel obligated, angel. How could I ever feel obligated to kiss you?”

“Well, I don’t know. Because I asked for your help.” Aziraphale rubs his hands up and down his thighs. Thighs that are so lovely and thick, and now that Crowley has seen what they look like without any clothes, he’s pretty much ruined forever. 

“For science.” 

“Uh. Yes, well. Perhaps the science bit was not entirely accurate. I feel I must explain myself. Try to at least. Will you let me?” 

“All right.” Crowley tries to keep his voice neutral, but he’s not at all sure he’s succeeding. 

A couple passes by with their baby in a pram; they look exhausted, especially the mum, who is complaining about a crick in her neck from sleeping badly. It seems to catch Aziraphale’s attention, and after a moment of consideration, he snaps his fingers. 

“Oh,” the woman exclaims with a relieved smile. “Actually, you know I think I loosened the knot.” 

Crowley can only smile, hopelessly charmed. “Angel.” 

“What’s a minor miracle or two now? Gabriel’s afraid of me.” 

“Of me, actually, but he doesn’t know that. Go on.” 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “I first heard about your sexual exploits from Sandalphon.” 

“So you’ve mentioned.” Crowley pulls a face and sticks out his tongue, making a _yech_ sound. __

_ _“Yes, well, there was this one particular orgy in Rome. He was quite . . . specific. Almost gleefully so. You know, I think all of that smiting at Sodom and Gomorrah might have been overcompensating for something.” _ _

_ _“If I ever see that rat-faced wanker again, I’ll give him something to talk about.” _ _

_ _“I wouldn’t blame you. I want you to know that I wasn’t jealous. Not precisely, anyway. I had never wanted to do any such thing with humans. I still don’t. But over the years, I grew . . . fonder of you. And curious about what it would be like, if I even could. But you never seemed to want to pursue anything of that sort with me, you seemed quite content with your humans, and so I put it out of my mind.” Aziraphale is staring straight ahead, the words coming out in a rush. “In any case, it never would have worked before, not with Above and Below watching us. We were already fraternizing; can you imagine how much worse it might have been if we’d been . . . No, it would have been quite impossible.” _ _

_ _Crowley realizes he isn’t breathing, waiting to hear what Aziraphale will say. _ _

_ _“But after last week, we nearly lost each other. I thought again that maybe I should, you know, make an Effort. And learn what you like and see if you would be interested in ah . . . me in that way.” He swallows convulsively. “It was a silly plan, really. I didn’t even really know how I would respond, myself, having never tried it. But you agreed and it all was far beyond what I hoped or expected, but the thing I hadn’t anticipated . . . In the end, I couldn’t tell if you really wanted to be there or if you were only helping me as you always do. Coming to my aid, as it were. And this morning when you kissed me, I thought, he does want me, but when you left, I was unsure all over again.” _ _

_ _“For Somebody’s sake, angel!” Crowley throws his hands up in the air and kicks out his legs, startling a flock of pigeons. _ _

_ _“What?” Aziraphale’s voice sounds small. _ _

_ _“You could have bloody well asked me.” _ _

_ _“I thought I was being rather obvious.” _ _

_ _“You were writing in a bloody notebook! All of those ridiculous tapes. And you have no idea how much, how long, how desperately I’ve wanted you?” _ _

_ _“You do?” _ _

_ _Crowley slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Aziraphale, you’re a being made of love. You’re supposed to be able to sense it.” _ _

_ _“Not with demons. I’ve never been—did you say love?” He looks shocked, surprised, and so hopeful, Crowley can’t even be exasperated. They are, the both of them, bloody morons. _ _

_ _“Of course. What did you think the last six thousand years were about?” _ _

_ _“Well, first we were enemies—”_ _

_ _Crowley shakes his head. “That’s what you told yourself. We were never enemies, not really. You put your silly wing over my head during that first rain. Remember that?” _ _

_ _“You had such lovely hair. Seemed a shame to get it all wet.” He looks slightly wistful. “And if my wings are silly, so are yours. Wait a moment, did you say six thousand years?” _ _

_ _“Give or take a few.” Crowley crosses his arms over his chest. A pigeon comes dangerously close to pecking a crumb off of Crowley’s boot. He hisses at it and it scutters away. “Okay, and so what about you? The other day, you said I was a wonderful friend.” _ _

_ _Aziraphale laughs affectionately. “Well you are. That will always be true. But of course I love you. More than anything. Dearest.” _ _

_ _“Say that again,” Crowley says. _ _

_ _“I love you.” _ _

_ _“The other part.” _ _

_ _“Dearest.” Aziraphale leans forward, hands steady on Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley can feel his warm breath, can see the shine in his eyes. And then they are kissing, arms wrapping and holding fast. It’s not graceful; the angle is awkward, and they keep moving their heads at the same time, bumping noses. It’s okay; they both laugh. Crowley runs his hands through the perfect, soft curls on Aziraphale’s head, wanting to mess him up. His mouth tastes of salt and the sweet sake they’d drunk, and Crowley wants to taste him everywhere._ _

_ _“Oi,” someone shouts at them. “Get a room, yeah?” _ _

_ _“Oh, fuck off!” Crowley yells back. _ _

_ _“They’re right, though,” says Aziraphale. “Let’s get a room. I . . . want to see you.” _ _

_ _“You have no idea what you’re in for, angel. I’m going to take you apart.” _ _

_ _“Oh my dear, I wish you would.” _ _

_ _Crowley is hauling him onto his feet, pulling him close. “Minor miracle?” _ _

_ _“Your place or mine?”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great, let's get to the good stuff! Next time...


	6. Never Like This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Silly Goose for the beta!

One of the things Crowley has not anticipated in spite of his bravado at the park: when you finally get what you want after six thousand years, it’s very difficult to be cool. 

Back at Aziraphale’s dusty flat, stumbling to the bed, Crowley is so far from cool and collected he might as well be in a different solar system. Fucking Alpha Centauri, he thinks dazedly as they pull at one another’s clothes. Aziraphale has far too many buttons. For years, Crowley has dreamt of undoing them slowly, one by one, but now that he’s actually got down to it, his hands are trembling so badly he can barely get one of the damned things open. 

Aziraphale is _touching_ him, rubbing his hands up and down the bare skin of Crowley’s chest, since he’s somehow managed to undo Crowley’s shirt with no issue. The fabric slips down his shoulders and Aziraphale’s hands are there, tracing reverently, almost like Aziraphale is savouring the feel of his skin, and it’s fucking distracting, is what it is. No one has ever touched him like this, and it’s been so very long—and Aziraphale’s lips are against his jaw, nibbling. 

“Angel,” he growls, trying his best not to yank on the fabric. “A little help?” 

“Best not risk any more miracles,” Aziraphale says, breathing heavily as he takes pity on Crowley and gets to work on his silly waistcoat with quick, practiced movements. 

Crowley stares, kicking out of the rest of his clothes like they’re on fire. Their eyes are on each other, both staring greedily. Aziraphale still has a cock, and it’s already fully hard, jutting thickly from his hips. Crowley wets his lips, hardly knowing where to start; he has no plan, but he wants to make this good for Aziraphale. He wants to satisfy him in every way, in whatever form he takes, maybe in all forms, every day for the rest of eternity. It’s a little overwhelming. 

“Dearest,” Aziraphale murmurs against his ear, and Crowley shivers. “You’re shaking.” He strokes Crowley’s hips like he’s soothing a skittish animal. 

“Am I? Must be the fish. That uni seemed a little off.”

“You don’t have to be nervous.” 

“I’m not fucking nervous, Aziraphale. Give me a little credit.” He realizes the way he’s suddenly holding Aziraphale might be interpreted as clinging. 

“Whatever you say, dear. Let’s lie down. I want to get a good look at you.” 

Aziraphale’s sheets are freshly washed, smelling of lavender. They’re back where they started that morning only this time there is no doubt where they’re headed. 

They are finally next to each other, nothing between them. Aziraphale is looking at him like he’s something precious, touching his thighs, his arms, his chest. Crowley lets him, waiting to see what will happen next.

“You’re so beautiful. Do you have any idea?” Aziraphale says as he finally straddles Crowley’s hips. His pink cock is only inches away, a bead of moisture wetting the tip. Crowley tries to lean forward to kiss it, but Aziraphale pushes him down. “Not yet.” Then, he scoots back and licks a trail down his stomach. 

Crowley arches off the bed. “For Ssssomebody’s sake, angel.” 

“I wanted to see how you taste.”

“Well?” he can’t help asking.

“Beyond my wildest dreams.” Aziraphale bites his lower lip, looking from Crowley’s face down to where he is aching between his legs. All the while he’s still doing the _touching_, smoothing his hands all over Crowley’s body. He’s being loved so completely, so intensely, and there is an expression of such tenderness on Aziraphale’s face, it’s almost too much to bear. He squeezes his eyes closed against the brightness, feels a ridiculous tear leak down his stupid face. When did he become such a blasted _sap_? Crying twice within twenty-four hours is certainly not very demonic. He hopes Aziraphale doesn’t notice. 

If he does, Aziraphale is kind enough not to mention it. Warm lips press against Crowley’s jaw, seek his mouth. He opens to the kiss completely, their tongues tangling, and Crowley rubs the thick thighs flanking his body. Aziraphale shudders above him, his cock leaking a sticky trail as they slide together. 

Aziraphale breaks away, his gaze intense and a little nervous. “You’ve been so wonderful. Made me feel so good. I want to try . . . will you let me . . .” 

“Anything you like,” Crowley says. He’s so on edge, if Aziraphale does what Crowley thinks he is about to, he might discorporate.

“Splendid.” 

With a smile mostly beatific and just a little bit wicked, Aziraphale manoeuvres himself between Crowley’s spread thighs. He is looking up at him when he first takes Crowley’s cock into his mouth, one hand firm around the base. As soon as his lips close, he makes a little moaning sound in the back of his throat and closes his eyes, rolling his tongue around as though Crowley is a particularly delicious sweet. 

Crowley curls his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms. The sensation is brilliant, but it’s nothing compared to the sight of Aziraphale enjoying himself, enjoying _him._ There is no finesse, it is wet and sloppy and without much rhythm to speak of, but it is still the best Crowley has ever felt in his miserable existence. Aziraphale’s face is flushed, his lips shining and red. He looks up again. 

“Do you like it?” 

Crowley can’t even think of a witty rejoinder. “Yesss, fuck, angel.” 

“Oh good. I want you to . . . in my mouth. Please.” He is stroking Crowley’s cock slowly as he speaks, using his other hand to squeeze his bollocks just as Crowley had shown him that morning, and the pressure is building, the sweetest ache. 

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Crowley says through clenched teeth. In fact, it’s pretty much imminent. It doesn’t say much for his stamina, but he figures he’s got time to prove himself later.

Aziraphale takes him in again with a groan of delight, and that sound alone pushes Crowley over the edge. His body trembles and he gasps as the pleasure peaks, and he comes so hard and so powerfully, his vision blurs. He realizes at some point he’s plunged his hands into Aziraphale’s soft hair. He is vaguely aware that someone is moaning, and vaguely aware that someone is him. Aziraphale’s hands are an anchor, holding him in place, a comforting weight on his thighs as he shakes. 

“Ngk.” He flops his head on the down pillow, splays himself out like a starfish. He is loose-limbed and pliant, all angles in line. 

Aziraphale looks extremely pleased with himself. “Speechless?” 

_Only because it’s you._ “A bit.” 

“Well. I suppose all of my studying paid off.” 

His cock is still half hard, and Aziraphale continues to lavish it with his attention, watching Crowley from underneath his lashes as he nuzzles. He makes it look as though he loves Crowley’s taste, his smell, and maybe he does. Crowley has half a mind to let him explore all night, but now that he’s had some relief, his head is clear. And what he wants more than anything is to return the favor tenfold.

Aziraphale is still aroused, hips shifting restlessly, and Crowley regards him, his hunger rekindling. There are few benefits to being a demon, but one of them is a negligible refractory time, if he wants. And he wants. 

“Aziraphale.” 

“Hmm?” 

Crowley pins him with a gaze he hopes is commanding but might be more along the lines of pleading. “Come here.” He holds out his arms. 

This is how they were meant to be, Cowley thinks as he tastes himself on Aziraphale’s tongue. They have, after all, chosen Earth and each other, so why not earthly expressions of love? Aziraphale was right at the park; it never would have worked before, not on Aziraphale’s end at least. Not until he discovered for himself what Heaven was really like, until he made the choice to be here with Crowley. Funny thing about the end of the world, how it can be a beginning. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispers against his lips. Crowley looks down at him as they rock together, feels the solid flesh of Aziraphale beneath him, the broad chest and plush stomach, pink nipples he needs to lick and kiss. 

“What do you want, angel? Anything you like, it’s yours.” 

“Well. I think I’d like, that is to say, will you fuck me?” 

Crowley can’t help but grin down at him. “I thought you’d never ask.” He’s going to take his time, make good on his promise. He gives Aziraphale one last kiss and then leans back on his haunches, considers where to begin. 

Aziraphale is watching him with lust-hazy eyes, utterly trusting. Crowley wants to devour him, and so he does, starting with the little round nipples, getting them nice and hard as Aziraphale writhes against his mouth. In spite of his inexperience, Aziraphale is completely unselfconscious, only moans in approval when Crowley nips at his soft belly, dips his tongue into the navel. Aziraphale’s skin is smooth and sweet, with only a scattering of hair on his chest and lower belly; Crowley rubs his face against it and grabs at Aziraphale’s full thighs, feeling he could be happy with only this for the rest of their time on Earth. 

Aziraphale doesn’t seem _quite_ as contented, however; his whole body is tense with arousal, fat cock leaking onto his belly. Crowley takes pity on him and gives it a stroke, and Aziraphale rewards him with a soft cry.

“Oh, Crowley!” 

“Is that nice, angel?” With a small demonic miracle, his fingers are slick with almond oil. He reaches down behind Aziraphale’s heavy bollocks to find his entrance, easing one finger into the tight hole. “Is that all right?” 

“Yes, please, yes. More.” 

The muscles clench tightly around him, so he magics more oil before adding another finger, watching for Aziraphale’s reactions, any hint of discomfort or pain. He finds none: only an angel with his thighs spread wantonly, laid out like a feast. Crowley may not like eating as much as Aziraphale does, but this is one meal he’s planning to savor. 

Fingers working, he turns his attention back to Aziraphale’s pretty cock, giving it a nice, slow lick. His tongue can do many wicked things, and he can’t wait to show off a little, but for now—

“Please, don’t torment me. Will you—ah!” 

Aziraphale is so incredibly hard, he fills Crowley’s mouth completely. He tastes sweeter than a human, but only just. Crowley bobs his head, taking him down as deep as he can and sucking hard as he crooks his fingers just so. Aziraphale makes a pained sound. He is pulsing hotly mere seconds later, and Crowley loves him through it all. 

When he comes up for air, Aziraphale is babbling his apologies. His eyes are shining, and his chest is mottled pink. 

“You never have to apologize to me,” Crowley says between pressing soft kisses along the insides of his quivering thighs, fingers still buried inside. “Not ever.” He bites one thigh harder, sucking in a bruise, and Aziraphale _yelps_, grabbing on to Crowley’s hair to pull him closer. 

“My dear, you really are a brute,” he gasps. 

“You sound like you like it.” 

“Maybe I do.” Aziraphale gazes at him fondly. “You know, I quite like the look of you between my thighs.” 

“Cheeky bugger.” Crowley bites him again.

“So this is what it was like for you, all those years ago . . .” Aziraphale swallows, glances somewhere else. 

Crowley feels him start to withdraw, and he can’t have that, not tonight. He shakes his head and rears up, replacing his fingers with the head of his cock. 

“No,” Crowley says as he starts to push in. “Not ever. You must know that, never like this.” 

And Satan below, he’s not lying. The feel of Aziraphale’s body drawing him in is like nothing he’s ever known, the exquisite pressure and the ease of it, as though Aziraphale was made only for him. And he realizes, with a jolt of lust and unbearable tenderness, that he in fact was. 

Aziraphale’s attention snaps back to him, fully and immediately. His eyes grow huge as Crowley fills him, angling his hips for just the right amount of pressure. When he is in deep and their bodies are flush, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hands and presses them back over his head. “Wrap your legs around me,” he whispers, groaning when Aziraphale complies. “That’s it.” 

Their mouths meet in a messy kiss, Aziraphale opening to him as Crowley starts to move. He kisses the angel’s soft jaw, the hollow at the base of his throat. Aziraphale’s hands grip his own tightly, and Crowley uses them for leverage, using his whole body to worship and caress wherever he can reach. Aziraphale seems greedy for it. He arches and rubs like a cat as Crowley fills him and again, and finally he asks wordlessly for the use of his hands. Crowley releases him, lost to a desperate embrace, blunt nails scratching at his back. 

Crowley has a catalogue of touches in his memory carefully preserved: the cursory-but-intentional brushing of fingers, the smoothing down of a collar, one hand on the back to guide the other through a door. But never like this, never with the mutual acknowledgement that yes, we are doing this together, and yes, I want to feel your skin, to know that you’re real beside me. 

He thinks fuzzily of Aziraphale’s plan, and wonders about the Bastille, about the Blitz, a hundred other times this might have happened if only one of them had spoken. He decides it was worth the wait. 

It is somehow softer than Crowley imagined it would be. He has no idea where his body ends and Aziraphale’s begins; they are completely one and there is nothing frightening about it, nothing wrong. He doesn’t know why he’s worried about it for so long. He’s an idiot, a fool. Aziraphale smiles under his mouth and Crowley rolls them over, wanting a better view. 

Now astride his hips, Aziraphale nearly glows. The smile is lost in a pleasure-glazed flush when Crowley snaps up into him. Aziraphale moves tentatively, circling down, another of his little experiments. Crowley hisses a yes.

“That’s right. Use me,” he says. “Put your hands on my chest if you need.” 

Crowley wills his cock to behave, fighting back the rising tide of arousal as Aziraphale gains more confidence and finds his rhythm. He rocks back and forth on Crowley’s prick, sighing as he gets the angle just right. His cock leaks onto Crowley’s flat stomach, twitching as he moves up and down. Crowley takes it in one hand, using the other to play with Aziraphale’s nipples, grab at his tits.

“You’re gorgeous, angel.” 

“Oh, dearest,” Aziraphale almost sobs. He is getting close; Crowley can tell from the stutter of his hips and the swelling flesh in his hand. He magics more oil, creating a slick channel in his fist for Aziraphale to do as he likes. 

Aziraphale grinds against his pelvis, and Crowley lifts to meet him. His erection aches deep in the clench of Aziraphale’s body, waiting for him to let go.

He isn’t expecting the wings, but suddenly they are there, arching from behind Aziraphale’s shoulders in brilliant, blinding white. Aziraphale shudders and cries out as his orgasm hits, and Crowley gasps and strokes him through it, feels the ripple around his cock. Aziraphale’s wings flutter, and all through the room, there is the sudden, unmistakable feeling of pure love. 

It is like a door opening and a long-lost secret being revealed; Crowley cries out as he remembers, and then he is coming, emptying himself and closing his eyes against the light. Spasms of pleasure wrack his body for what feels like eternity, and all the while Aziraphale is speaking to him in a language he thought he’d lost forever. 

He is panting, utterly spent, and when he opens his eyes, the wings are gone; it is just Aziraphale in his human form, smiling down with a hint of concern in his eyes. 

“Are you quite all right, my dear?” he asks, petting at Crowley’s chest. 

“Yeah. I . . . uh. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Well, you certainly . . .” Aziraphale flushes.

“What? What did I do?” Crowley pushes himself up onto his elbows, feels his softening prick slip free in a rush of warm liquid. “Oh.” 

“Yes, well. It went on for quite some time.” 

Crowley’s thighs tingle, and he realizes Aziraphale has cleaned them both up. “How long?” 

“Oh, er, an hour, give or take.” 

“An hour?” Crowley can feel his eyebrows climb. His eyes drift to Aziraphale’s bare shoulders. “And . . . did that really happen, with the wings? And the . . . Enochian?” Even now, the strains of angelic language are fading, becoming foreign once again. 

Aziraphale bites his lower lip. “I guess there are some things about us doing this that are certainly not human.” 

Crowley, who has never felt so good, shrugs. “I’m okay with that.” 

“Good. Because I think I gave you a celestial tattoo.” 

“A fucking _what_ did you say?” 

Aziraphale clambers gracelessly off Crowley, looking sheepishly at Crowley’s chest. There, right over Crowley’s useless heart, is a small, delicate, black tattoo. 

“It’s a wing,” Aziraphale explains needlessly, because it’s bloody obvious what it is. “I think one of mine? Er. Sorry about that.” 

“For Sssomeone’s sake.” Crowley groans. He can’t quite be arsed about it, but he has to make a fuss for appearances. “I hope that doesn’t happen every time.” 

“I guess we’ll find out.” Aziraphale says, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek, which Crowley pretends to suffer reluctantly. “I, for one, think it suits you.” 

“You would.” 

“All right, dearest. Shall we get dressed and have tea?” Aziraphale pulls on his tartan robe, tying it around his middle. He looks so freshly fucked and scrumptious, Crowley wants to pull him back onto the bed, but he doesn’t think he can move. “I think I still have some moussaka, if you’re feeling peckish. I know I am after all that. You can wear your lovely black silk pyjamas.” 

“I thought you didn’t look in the bag.” 

Aziraphale shrugs and smiles. “Tea, dear?” 

“I’m going to need some whisky in mine.” 

“You . . . you will stay over, won’t you?” Aziraphale pauses with his hand on the door frame, sounding uncertain. 

“Angel, you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.” 

They both have their tea with whisky, and afterward Crowley vanishes all of the shitty ‘70s pornos, upon Aziraphale’s request.

“Those were rather awful,” Aziraphale says, wrinkling his nose. “Doesn’t quite prepare you for the real thing.” 

“Nothing does,” says Crowley. They are sitting side-by-side, Aziraphale with a plate of biscuits and Crowley playing around with his phone. And if Crowley’s free arm is around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and if the angel is leaning against him while he nibbles, getting crumbs all over Crowley’s pyjamas, well, it’s just as it should be. “So, what were you writing? In your notes?” The notebook is still on the table, and Crowley can’t help being curious. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale flushes. “Um. Nothing really.” 

“Tell me.” Crowley pokes him in the side.

“No!” 

Crowley makes a move as if to grab for it, and Aziraphale lunges, snaps it up in a protective embrace. “Don’t,” he says weakly. 

Comprehension dawning, Crowley relaxes back into the sofa. “Is it about me?” 

“In a manner of speaking. Please, it’s embarrassing.” 

“All right, all right.” Crowley throws up his hands in surrender. “You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want.” 

Aziraphale glances down at the book, seems to come to a conclusion. He take a measured breath. “I confess that while we were watching . . . those videos . . .” 

“Porn.” 

“Yes, well, I was trying to catalogue your reactions, to different scenes, to discern a pattern of, interest, as it were.” 

“You were watching to see what makes me horny, and writing it down?” Aziraphale is a shade of red that Crowley has only ever seen on pieces of fruit. One in particular, that started it all. “Fuck’s sake, angel.” 

“Are you disgusted?” 

“No, you mad bastard. I’m impossibly turned on, and if you don’t come over here this instant and sit on my lap, I’m going to throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to the bed.” 

Aziraphale beams. “Oh, Crowley. I think that sounds like a splendid idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! 
> 
> Thank you for all of the lovely comments and your support; you've certainly helped me write faster. 
> 
> Come and find me on Twitter @Magnolia822 if you want to chat about Good Omens!


	7. A Final Prophecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to Silly Goose for the beta! <3 You're amazing, my friend.

**Six Months Later**

February is fucking freezing, Crowley thinks as he hurries down the streets of London with a box of chocolates tucked under one arm, a freshly baked loaf of bread under the other. It’s a garbage month, and if he hadn’t received a request from one peckish angel to pick up snacks, in particular _Mmm, the scrummy brioche from that new French bakery in Bloomsbury_, he wouldn’t have gotten out of bed with said angel at all.

There are a few errant snowflakes starting to drift down from the sky. Crowley remembers the first time he’d seen it, he’d thought it was one of God’s best creations, but then he’d seen the muck it left behind when it melted, and he had to wonder if it wasn’t Satan’s instead. 

Back at the bookshop, the door chimes as he opens it. Aziraphale looks up from behind the till, where a young woman is standing with a book in her hands and an expression of consternation on her face.

“But I thought this was a bookshop. Why can’t I buy this one?” 

Crowley can’t get a good look at the cover, but he rolls his eyes at Aziraphale and mouths behind the woman’s head. _Oh for Someone’s sake, angel. Let her buy the damn book._ He holds up his purchases and makes a shooing gesture towards the door.

Aziraphale purses his lips. “I suppose I can make an exception,” he says. “But be careful with it. Don’t dogear the pages.” 

The customer pays with a grudging frown and leaves with her spoils. Crowley flips the door sign to ‘closed’ and locks it for good measure. The snow is coming down harder now, starting to blanket the street. 

He turns back to Aziraphale. “What did she buy?” 

“My last copy of _The Importance of Being Earnest._ I knew I should have closed earlier.” 

Crowley, who has always been a little jealous of Aziraphale’s relationship with Oscar Wilde, even though he _knows_ he shouldn’t be, tries not to smile. “How terrible. You could, you know, stop selling books completely, if you like.” 

Aziraphale ignores him, his attention suddenly captured by the brioche. “Oh, my dear, thank you so much. You’re so sw—”

“Don’t you _dare_,” Crowley growls. “I am not sweet, not good, and certainly not nice.” 

“Of course, dearest. How could I forget?” Aziraphale says with a touch more sarcasm than Crowley likes. “And these!” He takes the chocolates along with the bread, caresses the box lovingly. “My very favorite.” 

Crowley thrusts his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders. “They were on sssale.” 

“You really are hopelessly smitten with me, aren’t you,” Aziraphale says, beaming. “How I never realized it before boggles the mind.” 

“There’s such a thing as willful ignorance.” 

“There’s such a saying as ‘pot calling the kettle black’.” Aziraphale arches an eyebrow.

“Touché.” 

They retire to Aziraphale’s flat, which has really in some ways become both of theirs, Crowley’s few belongings having made the journey over the last several months, including a few of his plants. He spends most nights here now, and most of his days. But it is a bit cramped for two people, and his flat-screen TV takes up half the living room. 

“Oh, dearest,” Aziraphale says between bites of brioche. “While you were out, I’ve had something from Anathema.” 

“Yeah? What’s she say?”

Aziraphale reaches for the envelope, pulls out a square piece of white cardboard, and hands it over to him.

“Ah,” Crowley says, reading over the invitation.

Mr. A.Z. Fell and Mr. Anthony J. Crowley  
are cordially invited to attend the nuptials of  
Ms. Anathema Device and Mr. Newton Pulsifer, May 1, 2020  
Malibu, California

“A May Day wedding,” he continues, setting down the note. “Why am I not surprised?” 

“But aren’t you pleased for them? Isn’t it wonderful?” 

Crowley shrugs. “Sure. Good kids. Hope they’ll be happy.” 

“What do you mean? We’ve been invited to the wedding. We have to go.” Aziraphale looks more than a little put out. 

“Do we? I thought you hated Los Angeles.” Los Angeles was one of Hell’s main thoroughfares, after all; between the incessant traffic, bad air quality, and power-hungry Hollywood executives, countless souls had been collected for Satan over the years. Crowley had taken credit for it of course, but really it had been a case of poor city planning. The humans had got rid of their trains all on their own. 

“It’s in Malibu.” 

“Same difference, angel. Look, sure, if you want to go, we’ll go. Not a problem.” 

“But you seem . . . I don’t know.” Aziraphale frowns at him. “You seem upset about it.” 

“Not upset. Just not big on weddings. Not sure what all the fuss is about. People get married, then divorce the same year. Doesn’t mean anything.” He is suddenly uncomfortable, not sure why he’s even bothering to explain. It’s not like Aziraphale has ever mentioned wanting to do . . . well, that. 

“Not everyone gets divorced. Not when it means something.” 

“Sure. Fine. But I don’t think you need a wedding to, you know, make a commitment.” 

Aziraphale is quiet for a moment, but it’s the concerning kind of quiet, the kind that means Aziraphale is thinking about how to phrase something delicately. 

“Like with us,” he finally says. “You’re saying you don’t want a wedding, but that this, well . . .” 

“It’s forever for me, is what I’m saying.” Their eyes meet across the table; Aziraphale has a horribly soppy look on his face, sky blue eyes shining, and Crowley fucking _loves_ him. 

“Oh, Crowley.” 

“I mean, I have an indelible tattoo of your wing on my chest, angel. I’d call that pretty fucking forever. Better than any ring.” Still, he’s glad it hasn’t happened again during any of the many times they’ve had sex since the first night, nor has there been another wing incident—they’ve come to the conclusion the two were probably linked. There’s no telling where another tattoo might decide to spring up, and he doesn’t fancy another one on his face, thank you very much. 

“So, what you’re saying is that, in many ways we’re . . . almost like Adam and Eve. The first couple of our kind.” 

Crowley drums his fingers on the table. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.” 

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale’s expression changes, a flush rising on his cheeks. Crowley knows what that flush means.

“Does that turn you on, angel?” 

Aziraphale wriggles in his seat. Crowley wonders what’s going on down there. Now that he’s been making an Effort, Crowley has no idea what to expect one day to the next. When he asked about it, whether Aziraphale preferred one to the other, Aziraphale merely laughed. _That’s like comparing apples to oranges, my dear. Er. Perhaps not the best metaphor._ Last night he had a pretty cunt he let Crowley play with until he nearly _screamed_. 

He’s betting he’ll have another opportunity to coax helpless sounds out of his angel right now. 

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe? I don’t think so. Come here.” 

Aziraphale stands so quickly he jostles the table and splashes his tea. “Bed?” 

Crowley is already pulling off his shirt. 

In the last six months, they have gotten rather good at this, Crowley thinks as he sinks between Aziraphale’s thighs. There is no nervousness or awkwardness, but the passion is undiminished. He could have Aziraphale every day for another six thousand years and never get enough. He hopes they’ll have that long. 

But they have now, and now, Crowley is treated to the beautiful sight of Aziraphale’s pink cunt, already wet and wanting him. He leans forward and taps his tongue against the hooded clit, licks it gently. He teases Aziraphale’s entrance with a finger, rubs his mound with his thumb, and Aziraphale lets out a whimper, thighs clenching tightly. 

“Oh, yes, my love, please.” 

Aziraphale is the most eager lover Crowley has ever had, the most willing to try anything. Maybe it comes from millennia of friendship and longing, maybe it’s the chemistry between them. He doesn’t really know or care, but it’s addictive. Crowley craves Aziraphale in a way he never has anything or anyone before. 

He tastes musky and clean, his wetness like a honeyed wine, and underneath that, the essence of Aziraphale himself. Crowley growls, swirls his tongue and buries his head to make a mess out of Aziraphale, loving on his little clit until it’s hard and he knows it’s aching, can almost feel it himself. He’ll have to get himself a vulva one of these days and have Aziraphale between his legs. He knows his angel will be up for it if he asks. 

Aziraphale’s hips are bucking, his hands tight in Crowley’s hair. His pussy is so wet, Crowley can fuck him with three fingers, no problem, and he is so hard he knows if he doesn’t get inside soon, he won’t last. 

But first, this. This little bud of nerves under his tongue, this sweet cunt clasping around his fingers. Aziraphale shakes and cries out and comes, and Crowley is so pleased and grateful. He gentles Aziraphale with one more kiss and Aziraphale’s thighs fall open. 

He gasps, still yanking on Crowley’s hair. “Sorry,” he says as he notices and releases him. “Got a bit carried away.” 

“I like it when you get carried away,” Crowley says, hauling himself up. Aziraphale is spread out below him, so soft and welcoming, and Crowley is aching. “Angel, I need to. . . is it all right?” 

Aziraphale’s legs wrap around him instinctively, and he slides home in one long thrust. He is too far gone to be overcautious, but he knows now what Aziraphale can take, what he likes. He snaps his hips and drives deep into that warm, wet heat, fucking him with a quick rhythm, knowing this will be over very soon. Aziraphale grips his arms to pull him closer, kisses his open mouth. He groans when Crowley fills him deeply and grinds, rubbing his sensitive clit as he does. 

“Just there,” Aziraphale says. “Oh!” And he is coming again, pulsing around Crowley and holding him fast. 

Crowley starts fucking harder, hips stuttering as the pressure builds. He feels strangely lightheaded, almost as though he’s rising above his body, but at the same time something is pushing at him, trying to get out. His buggering_wings,_ he realizes belatedly as his orgasm crests, and he is completely lost. 

“Oh fuck,” he groans.

He doesn’t remember much after that, only the exquisite pleasure of release, the feel of Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around him. He’s speaking in bloody angel tongue again, mixing it with English. _My dearest, my darling husband_, Crowley thinks he hears. He shudders and comes again. 

When Crowley finally opens his eyes, black feathers fill his peripheral vision. Aziraphale is watching him, slightly bemused. 

“I blacked out again?” Crowley asks weakly. 

“Mmm. Only a half hour this time. Still, I feel very properly used.” Aziraphale wiggles beneath him as he slips free. 

Crowley focuses on retracting his wings. There’s a little ache, but a good one, like zips of lightening travelling up and down his shoulder blades. “Are you sore?”

“A little, but it’s delicious, my dear.” 

If Crowley feels more than a little proud, he keeps it to himself. Take that, Oscar Wilde. But as they clean up with an ill-advised miracle, something else occurs to him. He studies Aziraphale from head to toe, shakes his head. “So, where’s yours?”

“Mine?” 

“It’s got to be somewhere. Turn over.” 

Aziraphale complies with a small frown. 

“Ah-ha!” Crowley spreads his hand over the perfect black wing, just at the curve of Aziraphale’s arse. “You’ve got a tramp stamp, angel.” He grins down at Aziraphale’s shocked face.

“A—what! You didn’t!” 

“Hey,” he says, holding up his hands. “For all we know, this was your doing with the angel language and the ‘husbands.’ I’m just an innocent bystander.” 

“Innocent, indeed.” Aziraphale sniffs. Then, his expression softens. “Does it look like yours?” 

“Exactly like mine.” 

“Oh, well, then. I suppose it’s all right.” Then he beams up at Crowley. “Crowley! It’s a gift from the Almighty. She’s given us Her blessing.” 

“Bloody hell. I think you’re probably right.” 

“Love thine enemy, and all.” Aziraphale claps his hands. “Well, we certainly did _that_.” 

“We were never enemies, angel.” Crowley raises his eyes to the sky in sheer exasperation. If She is watching, and this is indeed Her doing, he wants Her to know that he is suffering acutely. _Do you see what I have to put up with?_

“You know what I mean, dear. Let’s get some champagne to toast, shall we? I think we just got ethereally married.” 

Crowley smirks. "Ineffably, even."

Back out in the kitchen, Aziraphale fusses with the wedding invitation while Crowley gets the wine. He pops the cork just as Aziraphale exclaims from behind him. 

“Oh Crowley, look. There’s something else here.” 

Aziraphale pulls out a small piece of folded paper from within the envelope. Inside the paper is another scrap, this one yellowed with age. Aziraphale studies it carefully, his expressive eyebrows lifting as he reads silently.

“Well? What does it say?” Crowley passes him a glass of champagne.

“It’s a note from Anathema. ‘Dear Mr. Fell. There was another book, but I destroyed it. All save this. I thought it might be about you. Hope to see you soon at the wedding. -Anathema.” 

“Don’t tell me—” 

“Yes, yes it is. It’s another prophecy!” 

“Fuck my life.” 

Aziraphale gives him a look. “It’s not bad. Well, it is a bit cheeky.” 

“Just _read it_, angel.” 

“_Whene that the angele and demone finally get their heads out of their arses and each weareth the other’s marke, then shall they abide in a seaside cottage with much contentment as long as the demone toucheth not the angele’s rare books, and the angele doth not tell the demone he is nice, o’ermuch_.”

Crowley snaps the paper up and reads it over himself. “A seaside cottage? Agnes Nutter wants us to go live in a cottage? Seems like a waste of a prophecy to me.” He tosses it back on the table. 

“The South Downs really are lovely, Crowley. And there isn’t much space for us both here, now that you’ve basically moved in. Don’t think I hadn’t noticed.” 

“And you’re listening to her!?” 

“She’s never been wrong before. Just think about it. It might be nice; a place just for us, with a garden. We could take walks by the sea.” 

“Like old people,” Crowley grumbles to himself, pouring a glass of champagne. Outside, the snow is falling thickly, and the streets of London are strangely silent. They are, actually, old people. And what does he have keeping him here save Aziraphale? He’s out of the temptation business; he certainly doesn’t want any other sort of job. 

He can almost imagine being with Aziraphale somewhere that is theirs, just the two of them, away from all of this. Aziraphale puttering around in the kitchen, brewing tea and learning how to make his own scones. A green garden with plenty of room for Crowley’s plants. A library where Aziraphale can hoard his books and never, ever sell another one of them. A fresh start. He frowns down into his glass, watching the bubbles float up to the surface. 

“I suppose we could look at some places. Can’t hurt.” 

Aziraphale, who has been at the window looking out as he sips his champagne, turns around with a smile so wide and bright, it’s nearly as blinding as the snow. 

“Oh, you are the very best husband an ethereal being could ask for.” 

“I know,” says Crowley, and welcomes him into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now! Thanks for all of your comments and cheering. Hope you enjoyed the ride! <3
> 
> Follow me on Twitter or Tumblr @Magnolia822.


	8. Epilogue: Angels in America

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Silly Goose for the beta! 
> 
> Once they'd committed to going to Anathema and Newt's wedding, I couldn't resist writing this scene. Hope you enjoy!

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasps as Crowley manoeuvres their rental between two slower vehicles. “You do realize they drive on the right side of the road here in America.” 

“Didn’t go over the lines . . . much,” Crowley mutters, honking at the line of traffic that has suddenly appeared in front of them. The Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH, as the locals call it, is almost as bad as the M-25, but at least it’s more scenic. The view in the car isn’t bad, either. He glances at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye, taking in the casual white linen suit, a departure from his usual Victorian waistcoat and jacket. The fine-woven fabric drapes fetchingly over his shoulders and hugs his thick thighs, and Crowley itches to reach over and feel it for himself. So he does. He can do that now. 

He presses the brake and the Tesla slows to a crawl; his fingers crawl too, right over to that plush thigh to give it a squeeze. Aziraphale’s hand covers his own, warm and soft. The atmosphere here is brighter than in England, the air drier. It suits Aziraphale, Crowley thinks, this California light. He could almost be a movie producer out for a Sunday drive, save for the way his brow furrows in consternation whenever Crowley weaves the Tesla too close to oncoming traffic. 

“Oh, we’re going to be dreadfully late for the wedding,” Aziraphale says. “This traffic is terrible.” 

“Told you, angel,” Crowley says with a shrug. “You’re the one who insisted we come.” 

“It’s only right. They’re our friends. Plus—” Aziraphale continues before Crowley can protest he’s only met them twice. “—beach weddings are lovely.” 

“You ever been to one?” 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I’ve seen them in films.” 

“Well, you’re not going to go to this one, either, if we don’t do something about this,” Crowley says, gesturing to the snaking line of cars sparkling in the afternoon light, emitting, unbeknownst to their drivers, a low hum of ‘let’s be late’ into the May sky. 

“Won’t you do the honours, dear?” 

Crowley blows out a dramatic sigh; it’s only for appearances of course. He lives for indulging his angel, and Aziraphale knows it. With a snap of his fingers, the cars in front of them all pull to the side of the road to make room for the sudden approach of an oncoming emergency vehicle. Crowley doesn’t waste any time, pulling the Tesla into line behind it. The car handles a little more easily than the Bentley, but it lacks character. The fact that it’ll let him play music other than Queen isn’t enough to make up for this deficiency. Plus, it doesn’t make any noise at all, which isn’t much fun—though as a demon, he should probably like the idea of being able to sneak up on people unawares. 

The obstruction circumvented, the rest of the drive passes without incident—if you don’t count Aziraphale scanning through every Southern California radio station trying to find something other than be-bop to listen to (which Crowley most assuredly does). Still, he bites his weird tongue and puts his hand back on Aziraphale’s thigh.

They get to their destination with five minutes to spare. It turns out that a wiccan beach wedding is pretty much what you’d expect. There are minimal decorations, most of them from the sea itself—bits of driftwood and seaweed, strings of shells draped haphazardly among the white folding chairs. Anathema wears a gauzy pale violet dress and a wreath of flowers in her long, loose hair. Newt looks a little less ravishing in his brown suit—to represent the earth, maybe? Hard to tell. Everyone, about forty guests in all, crowds around the lucky couple on the sand, where they exchange vows and rings under the direction of a person named Saint, who smiles benignly and offers some sort of benediction to the goddess after they’re done. 

Crowley, the only one in the whole assemblage wearing all black, does a very good job of not rolling his eyes behind his Ray-Bans, and Aziraphale seems positively jubilant for these people they hardly know, but who are nonetheless inextricably linked to them because of the day they all saved the world. The stand at the back of the crowd and hold hands, and watch as Newt and Anathema, newly married, wade into the sea laughing. 

It’s cool in spite of the sun, and the sea breeze is really more of a wind that whips Aziraphale’s hair into a froth. He looks beautiful, happy and calm, accepting a celebratory glass of champagne from a young woman in a wide-brimmed hat who seems to materialize out of nowhere. Crowley wishes they were alone, so he could taste the sunkissed and salty bit of skin at the base of Aziraphale’s throat.

“The water looks nice, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale says. “Should we go swimming? I didn’t bring my bathing costume, but I’m sure one could be procured at a shop in town.” 

Crowley smirks. “I don’t think they have the kind you’re used to, angel. You might just have to miracle yourself a suit. A wetsuit, probably. That water’s freezing, you know.” 

Aziraphale frowns and nods. “You’re probably right.” 

“But don’t let that stop us,” Crowley says to get rid of the frown. “Can’t be any colder than the water in England.” 

Aziraphale beams and sips his champagne. 

A few minutes later, Anathema and Newt, wet to the waist and shivering, their arms tangled around each other, emerge from the sea. They look ridiculous. Crowley feels his mouth turn up into a genuine smile and lets it sit upon his features, briefly.

“Oh Mr. Fell! Mr. Crowley! We’re so glad you’re here.” Anathema comes forward and embraces Aziraphale, who is all smiles as she pulls away, though she leaves his pristine linen suit jacket sandy and damp. “I wondered if you’d come.” 

“Yes, my dear, we wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” 

Crowley snorts. “Well, maybe for the world.” 

Anathema’s sharp eyes dart from Aziraphale back to Crowley. “And you got my—and Agnes’s—note?” 

“We did indeed.” Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand again, and if there had ever been any doubt regarding their relationship, Crowley sees it vanish from her eyes, replaced by a sincerely pleased expression. He decides he doesn’t mind her.

“And how are you? How’s the bookshop?” 

“I sold it, my dear. We’re moving. Found a lovely little place on the South Downs,” Aziraphale continues, raising an eyebrow and lowering his voice unnecessarily. “You must come visit when you have the chance.”

“Oh, we will!” says Anathema. “I’ve always wanted to see the coast of England.” 

Newt claps his hand against Crowley’s shoulder, and then looks just as startled as Crowley is himself, withdrawing it awkwardly to wrap around Anathema. “You’ll come to the party, won’t you?” Newt aims the question at Aziraphale. 

“Lead on, dear boy.” 

The reception continues back at Anathema’s childhood home, a surprisingly modern house perched cliffside overlooking the Pacific. They don’t know anyone else; Adam and his friends were invited but couldn’t come because of school. Most of the guests seem to be close friends or relatives. A pretty woman who introduces herself as Anathema’s mother is the only other person who greets them by name, giving them both a knowing look, probably not unlike that of Agnes Nutter. 

“My daughter tells me you collect rare books, Mr. Fell,” she says, hooking her arm in the crook of Aziraphale’s. “Please allow me to show you my collection.” 

“I would be honoured.” 

“And you, Mr. Crowley. I hear you are a fan of rock music? Perhaps you would be interested in seeing my signed guitars.” 

“Sure,” Crowley says, and takes her other arm. She has obviously been instructed to make them feel at home.

The party isn’t terrible. As it goes on, Crowley lounges in the corner with a bottle of wine while Aziraphale flits around performing a series of minor miracles to keep the best wine flowing and the food fresh and warm. 

It’s amusing to watch him talk to people he doesn’t know; everyone likes him, everyone thinks he’s sweet and odd. He’s both of those things, of course, but that is only a tiny part of the story. It makes Crowley feel proud that he’s the one who knows Aziraphale best, that he is the only one who will ever know him so well. His husband—even that word doesn’t seem to encompass all that they are to each other. Human words never could. 

An hour or so into the party, Aziraphale rejoins him with a fresh glass of champagne for them both. “Having fun, darling?” 

“Ah, it’s not really my scene, but it’s not bad. How about you?” 

“Simply delightful. But I would really rather be spending this time with you. Alone.” Aziraphale lowers his voice so there can be no mistaking his meaning. 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “You get randy at weddings, angel?” 

“I suppose I do. It’s all the love, you see.” He spreads his hands across Crowley’s chest and leans in for a kiss. The mark tingles under his touch—the soul mark that is etched onto Crowley’s skin. In response, Crowley puts his arm around Aziraphale’s waist and slips his hand under the linen jacket, pressing it just above the line of his trousers, and Aziraphale shudders slightly. His mark is particularly sensitive, especially when he’s feeling amorous. 

“Maybe we should pay our respects,” Crowley says, smiling a little against Aziraphale’s lips.

“Yes, let’s do.”

They say their goodbyes to Anathema, her mother, and Newt, then slip away unnoticed by the rest of the guests, who will not even remember them in the morning. It’s usually better that way, to ensure no one starts asking questions about the unlimited supply of champagne or the two men that no one had ever seen before. 

Outside, it’s twilight, and the sky is a brilliant shade of red and orange, partially obscured by the sea fog rolling in. The breeze is much cooler now; probably not a good night for swimming, then. That can wait until tomorrow. 

They drive to their hotel—a 5-star just down the coast in Santa Monica with a miraculously available penthouse suite overlooking the ocean. 

“This is opulent,” Aziraphale remarks quietly as Crowley hands off the keys and a generous tip to the valet. He sounds pleased, though, his cheeks slightly pink from the cool night air. 

Crowley shrugs, feeling the heat creep up the back of his neck. Aziraphale may have insisted they attend the wedding, but Crowley had taken over planning after that. And he has a few more things in store. “Everywhere else was fully booked.” 

Aziraphale gives him a look. “Indeed.” 

The suite is almost absurdly lavish; a huge king-sized bed resplendent in red and gold dominates the master bedroom. There is a kitchen and a sitting room, and a balcony with chairs for lounging. In the closet, Crowley discovers two fluffy hotel robes and leaves one on the bed for Aziraphale while he explores.

The bathroom is modern, with a huge tiled shower big enough for two and a hot tub that would probably fit most of Lower Tadfield. Crowley is contemplating the possibilities when Aziraphale appears behind him, a warm presence at his back. 

“You really do spoil me, my dear.” 

“You like it?” 

Aziraphale answers by plucking the buttons on his shirt open, one by one, his well-manicured fingers practiced now after almost a year of doing this. “Please, allow me to spoil you in return.” 

Crowley isn’t going to say no. He sighs into the touch, feels himself hardening as Aziraphale kisses his neck and jaw, slips his hands down to undo the fly of his tight black trousers. 

“No pants, I see,” Aziraphale tuts, closing his hand around Crowley’s half-hard prick. He gives it a few slow strokes, and Crowley shivers and turns in Aziraphale’s arms to lick at the shell of his ear. It doesn’t take long before he’s aching and it’s clear they’re both wearing too many clothes. He makes an impatient sound and tugs Aziraphale’s shirt out from his trousers. 

Aziraphale lets him go long enough to help. His cock springs up, freed from the confines of his pants, and Crowley reaches out to touch the velvety soft skin, the hardness firm against his palm. The shower beckons. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand and leads him toward it, across the grey slate floor and into the cavern of the shower, grey tiles ringed by white. There is a bamboo bench inside, sturdy and wide enough for two, that will be just perfect for what Crowley has in mind. He urges Aziraphale to sit, turns on the water from each showerhead, and kneels between Aziraphale’s legs on the shower floor. 

“I’m supposed to be the one spoiling you,” Aziraphale gasps as Crowley slides him into his mouth. 

Crowley can’t talk, so he shrugs. He has plans for every available surface of the hotel suite, and he’s not one to keep score. 

Hot steam fills the room; Aziraphale runs his hands through Crowley’s hair, which is getting long again, and when wet nearly touches his shoulders. Crowley blinks away the shower spray and gets to work, moving Aziraphale’s cock in and out of his mouth in slow, deep slides. The slate is hard under his knees, just verging on uncomfortable, but Crowley hardly cares with the way Aziraphale is petting him, running his hands over his cheeks, touching his mouth at the edge to feel the slide of himself there. 

Aziraphale favors a fat cock. It’s not as long as Crowley’s, but it’s the perfect size to stretch his lips around, pink and pretty, just like the rest of him. He knows Aziraphale likes watching, so he makes a bit of a show of it, licking the slick head and getting it nice and wet. Hot water sluices down his back and runs in rivulets over his shoulders. It feels incredibly decadent to be on his knees like this in the bath, reminds him of things he’d done in Rome, only it is so much better to be with Aziraphale and no one else. 

He sucks Aziraphale until he is shuddering, his thighs tense with need. Crowley digs his fingers into the supple flesh and watches through his wet eyelashes as Aziraphale approaches his climax. 

“My dear, I—” 

Crowley pulls off. “Want you to fuck me tonight, angel. Will you do that for me?” 

“In . . . in here?” Aziraphale’s eyes are wide. 

“I’ll take care of everything.” Crowley presses two kisses to the insides of Aziraphale’s thighs, then stands. With Aziraphale sitting on the bench and their natural height difference, Crowley is pretty sure he has this covered. He miracles a generous amount of oil and reaches to stretch himself as Aziraphale watches, eyes going even wider. 

“You’re so experimental.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes and turns around, moving until he is seated in Aziraphale’s lap, back to front. He wriggles his arse from side to side, and Aziraphale’s cock rubs against him. He sucks in a sudden breath as he is breached. 

“Ohhh,” Aziraphale says with a drawn-out sigh. “This is very nice.” 

“Ngk,” Crowley agrees, working his hips back and forth until he is fully seated. The stretch is magnificent, and Crowley feels Aziraphale deep inside of him, the hot water and steam cocooning them from the rest of the world. The angel’s hands are on his waist, gripping firmly, proprietarily. 

If only Gabriel could see them now. 

He can barely stifle a laugh, and Aziraphale makes a bemused sound. “What are you laughing about?” 

“Tell you later. It’s . . . it’s a mood killer, let’s just say.” He leans back and takes his cock in hand. 

“Oh, my dear. You feel so wonderfully good. Would . . . can you please . . .?” 

“Are you trying to tell me to hurry up and fuck you, Aziraphale?” 

“Ah—yes.”

“Say it, then.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Tell me what you want.” His own body is eager for movement, craves the drag of Aziraphale’s thick cock, but he can wait. He’s been waiting for this night for months. “You would think that after watching all of that pornography, you’d be a little more forthcoming with the dirty talk.” 

This is a little game they play. Aziraphale has lost most of his shyness in bed, but he still likes Crowley to tease the words out of him. To tempt him. Crowley is always happy to oblige. 

Aziraphale shifts his hips, obviously trying to move, but Crowley is flush against him and there’s no purchase for his feet on the slippery shower floor. Crowley is the only one who can reach, and thus Aziraphale is at his mercy, tender though it is. 

“Come on, angel. I want to hear you say it.” 

Aziraphale runs his hands up and down Crowley’s sides, hugs him closer to pinch his nipples, and of course, runs his hand over the mark on Crowley’s chest. Crowley shudders as warmth blossoms there. “Very well. Please fuck yourself on me, dearest. I’d be ever so much obliged.” 

“You can do better than that.” 

A dramatic sigh. “Very well, you old serpent. If you don’t ride my cock right now, I’m going to take you to bed and give you a thorough seeing-to.” 

“That sounds great, actually. But I’ll take the point.” This whole thing was, after all, his idea, and he wants to see it through. He starts to move, rising and falling in a quick rhythm that makes them both groan. Aziraphale is hard as an iron bar inside of him, and every slide of his cock hits Crowley exactly where he wants it. The shower is almost unbearably steamy now, and Crowley can’t see much, can only feel the thick drag of Aziraphale’s prick as he pulls himself off. He jerks his cock quickly, knowing Aziraphale won’t last from the way he is panting and moaning, and really, wanting to get out of the shower. Exotic sex scenarios are almost always less exhilarating in practice than they are in fantasy. Give Crowley a soft, dry bed any day, and a warm angel to fill it. 

Still, there is something almost illicit about doing it like this. Aziraphale is obviously having a good time. He gives a warning cry, and Crowley slams his hips down. Their skin slaps wetly together as Aziraphale shakes and grips him hard, coming deep inside him. 

Crowley lets himself glide over the edge, settling down into Aziraphale’s lap as his orgasm overtakes him. His toes curl as he pulses, and the shower conveniently washes everything away. Aziraphale mouths at his neck, whispering sweet nothings—which is a stupid term for it, really, because to Crowley those words are everything. He moves his head for an awkward kiss, and then, with some effort, he disengages and helps Aziraphale to stand. 

They hold each other for a moment, and then Aziraphale snaps his fingers to dispel the steam and shut off the water. 

“Well,” he says, his soft hair plastered against his forehead. “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.” 

Crowley chuckles. “They’re supposed to have a few things for us in the fridge. Come on, angel, get dry. I’ll go see what we’ve got.” 

After miracling one of the fluffy white robes into his preferred colour—he does have a reputation to uphold, if only to himself—Crowley prowls into the kitchen and finds the fruit, cheese, chocolate, and wine he’d requested. He makes up a plate and grabs two glasses, snagging the bottle under his arm. 

Aziraphale is waiting for him in the bed wearing his white robe. His drying hair fluffs around his ears, skin still pink and soft. Crowley feels his renewed interest stirring and wonders if Aziraphale might make another effort, sooner rather than later. 

“Oh my dear! Look at that.” Aziraphale claps his hands together as Crowley sets the food down in the center of the bed. He pours the wine and watches with bemusement as Aziraphale nibbles a bit of this and a bit of that. Then, suddenly, his angel turns to him with a strange expression on his face. 

“Crowley.” 

“Hmm? What’s up?” 

“Is this . . .” He gestures around the room. “Are you taking me on a honeymoon?” 

Crowley feels his face flush, takes a deep sip of wine to dispel it. “Dunno. Hadn’t really thought about it.” 

“You’re a horrible liar, my dear.” 

“I am not! Take that back right now.” 

“You are when it’s me.” 

“I guess that’s probably true,” he admits begrudgingly. “Anyway, yeah, you got me.” He chances a sidelong look, and Aziraphale is beaming. 

“Thank you.” 

“Ssss no problem.” 

“Come here, darling.” Aziraphale sets down his wine glass. The hungry glint is back in his eyes, but this time, it’s clearly not for food. He opens his robe, and Crowley is treated to the sight of clean, voluptuous angel with a soft thatch of hair between his legs. His throat goes dry. 

“How long do we have the room?” Aziraphale asks as they find their way together. 

“As long as we want it.” 

“But your plants back home—”

“I took care of it, angel.” 

“Oh. Oh!” Aziraphale cries out as Crowley moves between his legs. He is already wet, his little cunt perked up and ready. 

“Well. I suppose we might stay for a few days.” 

“At least.” Crowley sinks into him with a quiet groan. 

Aziraphale throws his head back. “Or maybe a week,” he says on a sigh. 

“As long as you want.” 

“I would really like to take a swim tomorrow. Or perhaps go to the Getty.” 

His angel is too coherent for Crowley’s liking. He reaches down between them to find the place where they’re joined and rubs his fingers over Aziraphale’s aroused clit. 

“I’ve heard that the Griffith Park Observatory is q-quite nice. _Oh,_ just there, my dear. And of course, we must get tacos. _Mmmm_ a bit slower.” 

Crowley circles his fingers in just the right way, feels Aziraphale spasm around him. “If we’re done, sure.”

“_If_, oh _Crowley,_ you demon.” 

Crowley smiles into the warm crease of Aziraphale’s neck as he starts to move. He might be a demon, but he always has the best ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me on Twitter @Magnolia822. Thanks for all of your lovely comments!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * ["Tramp Stamp Angel" and "Never Like This" {art}](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20819492) by [altocello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/altocello/pseuds/altocello)
  * [Never Letting You Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20966843) by [CopperBeech](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech)


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